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BY  ROM  J  IN  ROLLJND 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:   JOURNEY'S   END 

COLAS  BREUGNON,  BURGUNDIAN 

CLERAMBAULT 

THE  MUSICIANS  OF  TODAY 

SOME  MUSICIANS  OF  FORMER  DAYS 

BEETHOVEN 

HANDEL 

MUSICAL  JOURNEYS  TO  THE  COUN- 
TRY   OF    THE    PAST 

THE  FOURTEENTH  OF  JULY 

THE  PEOPLE'S  THEATER 


CLERAMBAULT 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  INDEPENDENT  SPIRIT 
DURING  THE  WAR 


BY 
ROMAIN   ROLLAND 

TRANSLATED  BY 
KATHERINE  MILLER 


•     •  '•!  ••    ,**.  !••  •• 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

IQ3I 


Copyright,  1921 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


%A^-  Jl^j^  (fijL:^ 


PRINTED    IN    THB    U.  S.  A.  BY 

tCbe  ®uinn  &  IBoiien  Componp 

BOOK      MANUFACTURERS 
RAHWAY  NEW    JERSEY 


c©p.\ 

TO  THE  READER 

This  book  is  not  a  novel,  but  rather  the  confession  of  a 
free  spirit  telling  of  its  mistakes,  its  sufferings  and  its 
struggles  from  the  midst  of  the  tempest;  and  it  is  in  no 
sense  an  autobiography  either.  Some  day  I  may  wish  to 
write  of  myself,  and  I  will  then  speak  without  any  disguise 
or  feigned  name.  Though  it  is  true  that  I  have  lent  some 
ideas  to  my  hero,  his  individuality,  his  character  and  the 
circumstances  of  his  life  are  all  his  own;  and  I  have  tried 
to  give  a  picture  of  the  inward  labyrinth  where  a  weak 
spirit  wanders,  feeling  its  way,  uncertain,  sensitive  and  im- 
pressionable, but  sincere  and  ardent  in  the  cause  of  truth. 

Some  chapters  of  the  book  have  a  family  likeness  to  the 
meditations  of  our  old  French  moralists  and  the  stoical 
essays  of  the  end  of  the  XVIth  century.  At  a  time 
resembling  our  own  but  even  exceeding  it  in  tragic  horror, 
amid  the  convulsions  of  the  League,  the  Chief-Magistrate 
Guillaume  Du  Vair  wrote  his  noble  Dialogues,  "  De  la 
Constance  et  Consolation  6s  Calamites  Publiques,"  with  a 
steadfast  mind.  While  the  siege  of  Paris  was  at  its 
worst  he  talked  in  his  garden  with  his  friends,  Linus 
the  great  traveller,  Musee,  Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Medi- 
cine, and  the  writer  Orphee.  Poor  wretches  lay  dead 
of  starvation  in  the  streets,  women  cried  out  that  pike- 
men  were  eating  children  near  the  Temple;  but  with 
their  eyes  filled  with  these  horrible  pictures  these  wise 
men  sought  to  raise  their  unhappy  thoughts  to  the  heights 
where  one  can  reach  the  mind  of  the  ages  and  reckon  up 
that  which  has  survived  the  test.  As  I  re-read  these 
Dialogues  during  the  war  I  more  than  once  felt  myself  close 


'.^.f^:\^/tn 


'im44i 


vr  TO  THE  READER 

to  that  true  Frenchman  who  wrote:  Man  is  born  to  see 
and  know  everything,  and  it  is  an  injustice  to  limit  him 
to  one  place  on  the  earth.  To  the  wise  man  the  whole 
world  is  his  coimtry.  God  lends  us  the  world  to  enjoy  in 
common  on  one  condition  only,  that  we  act  uprightly. 

R.  R. 

Pakis, 
May,  1920. 


INTRODUCTION  * 

This  book  is  not  written  about  the  war,  though  the 
shadow  of  the  war  lies  over  it.  My  theme  is  that  the 
individual  soul  has  been  swallowed  up  and  submerged  in 
the  soul  of  the  multitude;  and  in  my  opinion  such  an  event 
is  of  far  greater  importance  to  the  future  of  the  race  than 
the  passing  supremacy  of  one  nation. 

I  have  left  questions  of  policy  in  the  background  inten- 
tionally, as  I  think  they  should  be  reserved  for  special 
study.  No  matter  what  causes  may  be  assigned  as  the 
origins  of  the  war,  no  matter  what  theses  support  them, 
nothing  in  the  world  can  excuse  the  abdication  of  indi- 
vidual judgment  before  general  opinion. 

The  universal  development  of  democracies,  vitiated  by 
a  fossilized  survival,  the  outrageous  "  reason  of  State,"  has 
led  the  mind  of  Europe  to  hold  as  an  article  of  faith  that 
there  can  be  no  higher  ideal  than  to  serve  the  community. 
This  community  is  then  defined  as  the  State. 

I  venture  to  say  that  he  who  makes  himself  the  servant 
of  a  blind  or  blinded  nation, — and  most  of  the  states  are 
in  this  condition  at  the  present  day, — does  not  truly  serve 
it  but  lowers  both  it  and  himself;  for  in  general  a  few  men, 
incapable  of  understanding  the  complexities  of  the  people, 

*  This  Introduction  was  published  in  the  Swiss  newspapers  in 
December,  191 7,  with  an  episode  of  the  novel  and  a  note  ex- 
plaining the  original  title,  L'Un  contrc  Tous.  "  This  somewhat 
ironical  name  was  suggested — with  a  difference — by  La  Boctic's 
Le  Cont/  Un;  but  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  author 
entertained  the  extravagant  idea  of  setting  one  man  in  opposition 
to  all  others ;  he  only  wishes  to  summon  the  personal  conscience 
to  the  most  urgent  conflict  of  our  time,  the  struggle  against  the 
herd-spirit" 

T 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

force  thoughts  and  acts  upon  them  in  harmony  with  their 
own  passions  and  interests  by  means  of  the  falsehoods  of 
the  press  and  the  implacable  machinery  of  a  centralised 
government.  He  who  would  be  useful  to  others  must  first 
be  free  himself;  for  love  itself  has  no  value  coming  from  a 
slave. 

Independent  minds  and  firm  characters  are  what  the 
world  needs  most  today.  The  death-like  submission  of  the 
churches,  the  stifling  intolerance  of  nations,  the  stupid 
unitarianism  of  socialists, — ^by  all  these  different  roads  we 
are  returning  to  the  gregarious  life.  Man  has  slowly 
dragged  himself  out  of  the  warm  slime,  but  it  seems  as 
if  the  long  effort  has  exhausted  him;  he  is  letting  himself 
slip  backward  into  the  collective  mind,  and  the  choking 
breath  of  the  pit  already  rises  about  him.  You  who  do  not 
believe  that  the  cycle  of  man  is  accomplished,  you  must 
rouse  yourselves  and  dare  to  separate  yourselves  from  the 
herd  in  which  you  are  dragged  along.  Every  man  worthy 
of  the  name  should  learn  to  stand  alone,  and  do  his  own 
thinking,  even  in  conflict  with  the  whole  world.  Sincere 
thought,  even  if  it  does  run  counter  to  that  of  others,  is 
still  a  service  to  mankind;  for  humanity  demands  tliat 
those  who  love  her  should  oppose,  or  if  necessary  rebel 
against  her.  You  will  not  serve  her  by  flattery,  by  debasing 
your  conscience  and  intelligence,  but  rather  by  defending 
their  integrity  from  the  abuse  of  power.  For  these  are 
some  of  her  voices,  and  if  you  betray  yourself  you  betray 
her  also. 

R.  R. 

SlEKRE, 

March,  1917. 


PART  ONE 


Agenor  Clerambault  sat  under  an  arbour  in  his  garden 
at  St.  Prix,  reading  to  his  wife  and  children  an  ode  that 
he  had  just  written,  dedicated  to  Peace,  ruler  of  men  and 
things,  "  Ara  Pacis  Augustae."  In  it  he  wished  to  celebrate 
the  near  approach  of  universal  brotherhood.  It  was  a  July 
evening;  a  last  rosy  light  lay  on  the  tree- tops,  and  through 
the  luminous  haze,  like  a  veil  over  the  slopes  of  the  hillside 
and  the  grey  plain  of  the  distant  city,  the  windows  on 
Montmartre  burned  like  sparks  of  gold.  Dinner  was  just 
over.  Clerambault  leaned  across  the  table  where  the  dishes 
yet  stood,  and  as  he  spoke  his  glance  full  of  simple  pleasure 
passed  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  three  auditors,  sure 
of  meeting  the  reflection  of  his  own  happiness. 

His  wife  Pauline  followed  the  flight  of  his  thought  with 
difficulty.  After  the  third  phrase  anything  read  aloud  made 
her  feel  drowsy,  and  the  affairs  of  her  household  took  on 
an  absurd  importance;  one  might  say  that  the  voice  of  the 
reader  made  them  chirp  like  birds  in  a  cage.  It  was  in 
vain  that  she  tried  to  follow  on  Clerambault's  lips,  and 
even  to  imitate  with  her  own,  the  words  whose  meaning  she 
no  longer  understood;  her  eye  mechanically  noted  a  hole 
in  the  cloth,  her  fingers  picked  at  the  crumbs  on  the  table, 
her  mind  flew  back  to  a  troublesome  bill,  till  as  her  hus- 
band's eye  seemed  to  catch  her  in  the  act,  hastily  snatching 
at  the  last  words  she  had  heard,  she  went  into  raptures 
over  a  fragment  of  verse, — for  she  could  never  quote  poetry 
accurately.  "  What  was  that,  Agenor?  Do  repeat  that  last 
line.  How  beautiful  it  is."  Little  Rose,  Her  daughter, 
frowned,  and  Maxime,  the  grown  son,  was  annoyed  and 
said  impatiently:  "  You  are  always  interrupting.  Mamma!  " 

Qerambault  smiled  and  patted  his  wife's  hand  affec- 

3 


4  CXERAMBAULT 

tionately.  He  had  married  her  for  love  when  he  was  young, 
poor,  and  unknown,  and  together  they  had  gone  through 
years  of  hardship.  She  was  not  quite  on  his  intellectual 
level  and  the  difference  did  not  diminish  with  advancing 
years,  but  Clerambault  loved  and  respected  his  helpmate, 
and  she  strove,  without  much  success,  to  keep  step  with 
her  great  man  of  whom  she  was  so  proud.  He  was  ex- 
traordinarily indulgent  to  her.  His  was  not  a  critical 
nature — ^which  was  a  great  help  to  him  in  life  in  spite  of 
innumerable  errors  of  judgment;  but  as  these  were  always 
to  the  advantage  of  others,  whom  he  saw  at  their  best, 
people  laughed  but  liked  him.  He  did  not  interfere  with 
their  money  hunt  and  his  countrified  simplicity  was  refresh- 
ing to  the  world-weary,  like  a  wild-growing  thicket  in  a 
city  square. 

Maxime  was  amused  by  all  this,  knowing  what  it  was 
worth.  He  was  a  good-looking  boy  of  nineteen  with  bright 
laughing  eyes,  and  in  the  Parisian  surroundings  he  had 
been  quick  to  acquire  the  gift  of  rapid,  humorous  observa- 
tion, dwelling  on  the  outside  view  of  men  and  things  more 
than  on  ideas.  Even  in  those  he  loved,  nothing  ridiculous 
escaped  him,  but  it  was  without  ill-nature.  Clerambault 
smiled  at  the  youthful  impertinence  which  did  not  diminish 
Maxime's  admiration  for  his  father  but  rather  added  to  its 
flavour.  A  boy  in  Paris  would  tweak  the  Good  Lord  by  the 
beard,  by  way  of  showing  affection! 

Rosine  was  silent  according  to  her  habit;  it  was  not  easy 
to  know  her  thoughts  as  she  listened,  bent  forward,  her 
hands  folded  and  her  arms  leaning  on  the  table.  Some  na- 
tures seem  made  to  receive,  like  the  earth  which  opens  itself 
silently  to  every  seed.  Many  seeds  fall  and  remain  dor- 
mant; none  can  tell  which  will  bring  forth  fruit.  The  soul 
of  the  young  girl  was  of  this  kind;  her  face  did  not  reflect 
the  words  of  the  reader  as  did  Maxime's  mobile  features, 
but  the  slight  flush  on  her  cheek  and  the  moist  glance  of 


CLERAMBAULT  5 

her  eyes  under  their  drooping  lids  showed  inward  ardour 
and  feeling.  She  looked  like  those  Florentine  pictures  of  the 
Virgin  stirred  by  the  magical  salutation  of  the  Archangel. 
Clerambault  saw  it  all  and  as  he  glanced  around  his  little 
circle  his  eye  rested  with  special  delight  on  the  fair  bend- 
ing head  which  seemed  to  feel  his  look. 

On  this  July  evening  these  four  people  were  united  in 
a  bond  of  affection  and  tranquil  happiness  of  which  the 
central  point  was  the  father,  the  idol  of  the  family. 


He  knew  that  he  was  their  Idol,  and  by  a  rare  exception 
this  knowledge  did  not  spoil  him,  for  he  had  such  joy  in 
loving,  so  much  affection  to  spread  far  and  wide  that  it 
seemed  only  natural  that  he  should  be  loved  in  return;  he 
was  really  like  an  elderly  child.  After  a  life  of  ungilded 
mediocrity  he  had  but  recently  come  to  be  known,  and 
though  the  one  experience  had  not  given  him  pain,  he  de- 
lighted in  the  other.  He  was  over  fifty  without  seeming 
to  be  aware  of  it,  for  if  there  were  some  white  threads  in 
his  big  fair  moustache, — like  an  ancient  Gaul's, — ^his  heart 
was  as  young  as  those  of  his  children.  Instead  of  going 
with  the  stream  of  his  generation,  he  met  each  new  wave; 
the  best  of  life  to  him  was  the  spring  of  youth  constantly 
renewed,  and  he  never  troubled  about  the  contradictions 
into  which  he  was  led  by  this  spirit  always  in  reaction 
against  that  which  had  preceded  it.  These  inconsistencies 
were  fused  together  in  his  mind,  which  was  more  enthusiastic 
than  logical,  and  filled  by  the  beauty  which  he  saw  all 
around  him.  Add  to  this  the  milk  of  human  kindness, 
which  did  not  mix  well  with  his  aesthetic  pantheism,  but 
which  was  natural  to  him. 

He  had  made  himself  the  exponent  of  noble  human  ideas, 
sympathising  with  advanced  parties,  the  oppressed,  the 
people — of  whom  he  knew  little,  for  he  was  thoroughly 
of  the  middle-class,  full  of  vague,  generous  theories. 
He  also  adored  crowds  and  loved  to  mingle  with  them, 
believing  that  in  this  way  he  joined  himself  to  the  All- 
Soul,  according  to  the  fashion  at  that  time  in  intellectual 
circles.  This  fashion,  as  not  infrequently  happens,  empha- 
sised a  general  tendency  of  the  day;  humanity  turning  to 
the  swarm-idea.     The  most  sensitive  among  human  in- 

6 


CLERAMBAULT  7| 

sects, — ^artists  and  thinkers, — ^were  the  first  to  show  these 
symptoms,  which  in  them  seemed  a  sort  of  pose,  so  that 
the  general  conditions  of  which  they  were  a  symptom  were 
lost  sight  of. 

The  democratic  evolution  of  the  last  forty  years  had 
established  popular  government  politically,  but  socially 
speaking  had  only  brought  about  the  rule  of  mediocrity. 
Artists  of  the  higher  class  at  first  opposed  this  levelling 
down  of  intelligence, — but  feeling  themselves  too  weak  to 
resist  they  had  withdrawn  to  a  distance,  emphasising  their 
disdain  and  their  isolation.  They  preached  a  sort  of  art, 
acc^table  only  to  the  initiated.  There  is  nothing  finer  than 
such  a  retreat  when  one  brings  to  it  wealth  of  conscious- 
ness, abundance  of  feeling  and  an  outpouring  soul,  but  the 
literary  groups  of  the  end  of  the  XlXth  century  were  far 
removed  from  those  fertile  hermitages  where  robust  thoughts 
were  concentrated.  They  cared  much  more  to  economise 
their  little  store  of  intelligence  than  to  renew  it.  In  order  to 
purify  it  they  had  withdrawn  it  from  circulation.  The  result 
was  that  it  ceased  to  be  perceived.  The  common  life  passed 
on  its  way  without  bothering  its  head  further,  leaving  the 
artist  caste  to  wither  in  a  make-believe  refinement.  The  vio- 
lent storms  at  the  time  of  the  excitement  about  the  Dreyfus 
Case  did  rouse  some  minds  from  this  torpor,  but  when 
they  came  out  of  their  orchid-house  the  fresh  air  turned 
their  heads  and  they  threw  themselves  into  the  great  passing 
movement  with  the  same  exaggeration  that  their  predeces- 
sors had  shown  in  withdrawing  from  it.  They  believed  that 
salvation  was  in  the  people,  that  in  them  was  virtue,  even 
all  good,  and  though  they  were  often  thwarted  in  their 
efforts  to  get  closer  to  them,  they  set  flowing  a  current  in 
the  thought  of  Europe.  They  were  proud  to  call  themselves 
the  exponents  of  the  collective  soul,  but  they  were  not  vic- 
tors but  vanquished;  the  collective  soul  made  breaches  in 
their  ivory  tower,  the  feeble  personalities  of  these  thinkers 


8  CLERAMBAULT 

yielded,  and  to  hide  their  abdication  from  themselves,  they 
declared  it  voluntary.  In  the  effort  to  convince  themselves, 
philosophers  and  aesthetics  forged  theories  to  prove  that 
the  great  directing  principle  was  to  abandon  oneself  to  the 
stream  of  a  united  life  instead  of  directing  it,  or  more 
modestly  following  one's  own  little  path  in  peace.  It  was 
a  matter  of  pride  to  be  no  longer  oneself,  to  be  no  longer 
free  to  reason,  for  freedom  was  an  old  story  in  these  democ- 
racies. One  gloried  to  be  a  bubble  tossed  on  the  flood, — 
some  said  of  the  race  and  others  of  the  universal  life. 
These  fine  theories,  from  which  men  of  talent  managed  to 
extract  receipts  for  art  and  thought,  were  in  full  flower  in 
1914.  The  heart  of  the  simple  Clerambault  rejoiced  in 
such  visions,  for  nothing  could  have  harmonised  better  with 
his  warm  heart  and  inaccurate  mind.  If  one  has  but  little 
self-possession  it  is  easy  to  give  oneself  up  to  others,  to  the 
world,  to  that  indefinable  Providential  Force  on  whose  shoul- 
ders we  can  throw  the  burden  of  thought  and  will.  The 
great  current  swept  on  and  these  indolent  souls,  instead  of 
pursuing  their  way  along  the  bank  found  it  easier  to  let 
themselves  be  carried.  .  .  .  Where?  No  one  took  the 
trouble  to  ask.  Safe  in  their  West,  it  never  occurred  to 
them  that  their  civilisation  could  lose  the  advantages 
gained;  the  march  of  progress  seemed  as  inevitable  as  the 
rotation  of  the  earth.  Firm  in  this  conviction,  one  could 
fold  one's  arms  and  leave  all  to  nature;  who  meanwhile 
was  waiting  for  them  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit  that  she 
was  digging. 

As  became  a  good  idealist,  Clerambault  rarely  looked 
where  he  was  going,  but  that  did  not  prevent  him  from 
meddling  in  politics  in  a  fumbling  sort  of  way,  as  was  the 
mania  of  men  of  letters  in  his  day.  He  had  his  word  to 
say,  right  or  wrong,  and  was  often  entreated  to  speak  by 
journalists  in  need  of  copy,  and  fell  into  their  trap,  taking 
himself  seriously  in  his  innocent  way.     On  the  whole  he 


CLERAMBAULT  9 

was  a  fair  poet  and  a  good  man,  intelligent,  if  rather  a 
greenhorn,  pure  of  heart  and  weak  in  character,  sensitive 
to  praise  and  blame,  and  to  all  the  suggestions  round  him. 
He  was  incapable  of  a  mean  sentiment  of  envy  or  hatred, 
and  unable  also  to  attribute  such  thoughts  to  others.  Amid 
the  complexity  of  human  feelings,  he  remained  blind  to- 
wards evil  and  an  advocate  of  the  good.  This  type  of 
writer  is  born  to  please  the  public,  for  he  does  not  see 
faults  in  men,  and  enhances  their  small  merits,  so  that  even 
those  who  see  through  him  are  grateful.  If  we  cannot 
amount  to  much,  a  good  appearance  is  a  consolation,  and 
we  love  to  be  reflected  in  eyes  which  lend  beauty  to  our 
mediocrity. 

This  widespread  sympathy,  which  delighted  Clerambault, 
was  not  less  sweet  to  the  three  who  surrounded  him  at  this 
moment.  They  were  as  proud  of  him  as  if  they  had  made 
him,  for  what  one  admires  does  seem  in  a  sense  one's  own 
creation,  and  when  in  addition  one  is  of  the  same  blood,  a 
part  of  the  object  of  our  admiration,  it  is  hard  to  tell  if 
we  spring  from  him,  or  he  from  us. 

Agenor  Clerambault's  wife  and  his  two  children  gazed  at 
their  great  man  with  the  tender  satisfied  expression  of 
ownership;  and  he,  tall  and  high-shouldered,  towered  over 
them  with  his  glowing  words  and  enjoyed  it  all;  he  knew 
very  well  that  we  really  belong  to  the  things  that  we  fancy 
are  our  possessions. 


Clerambault  had  just  finished  with  a  Schilleresque 
vision  of  the  fraternal  joys  promised  in  the  future. 
Maxime,  carried  away  by  his  enthusiasm  in  spite  of  his 
sense  of  humour,  had  given  the  orator  a  round  of  applause 
all  by  himself.  Pauline  noisily  asked  if  Agenor  had  not 
heated  himself  in  speaking,  and  amid  the  excitement  Rosine 
silently  pressed  her  lips  to  her  father's  hand. 

The  servant  brought  in  the  mail  and  the  evening  papers, 
but  no  one  was  in  a  hurry  to  read  them.  The  news  of  the 
day  seemed  behind  the  times  compared  with  the  dazzling 
future.  Maxime  however  took  up  the  popular  middle-class 
sheet,  and  threw  his  eye  over  the  columns.  He  started  at 
the  latest  items  and  exclaimed;  "  Hullo!  War  is  declared." 
No  one  listened  to  him:  Clerambault  was  dreaming  over 
the  last  vibrations  of  his  verses;  Rosine  lost  in  a  calm 
ecstasy;  the  mother  alone,  who  could  not  fix  her  mind  on 
anything,  buzzing  about  like  a  fly,  chanced  to  catch  the 
last  word, — "  Maxime,  how  can  you  be  so  silly?  "  she 
cried,  but  Maxime  protested,  showing  his  paper  with  the 
declaration  of  war  between  Austria  and  Servia. 

"  War  with  whom?  "—  "  With  Servia?  "—  "  Is  that 
all?  "  said  the  good  woman,  as  if  it  were  a  question  of 
something  in  the  moon. 

Maxime  however  persisted, — doctus  cum  libro, — ^arguing 
that  from  one  thing  to  another,  this  shock  no  matter  how 
distant,  might  bring  about  a  general  explosion;  but  Cler- 
ambault, who  was  begmning  to  come  out  of  his  pleasant 
trance,  smiled  calmly,  and  said  that  nothing  would  happen. 

"  It  is  only  a  bluff,"  he  declared,  "  like  so  many  we  have 
had  for  the  last  thirty  years;  we  get  them  regularly  every 
spring   and   summer;    just   bullying   and   sabre-rattling." 

xo 


CLERAMBAULT  11 

People  did  not  believe  in  war,  no  one  wanted  it;  war  had 
been  proved  to  be  impossible, — it  was  a  bugbear  that  must 
be  got  out  of  the  heads  of  free  democracies  .  .  .  and  he 
enlarged  on  this  theme.  The  night  was  calm  and  sweet ;  all 
around  familiar  sounds  and  sights;  the  chirp  of  crickets  in 
the  fields,  a  glow-worm  shining  in  the  grass, — delicious  per- 
fume of  honey-suckle.  Far  away  the  noise  of  a  distant 
train;  the  little  fountain  tinkled,  and  in  the  moonless  sky 
revolved  the  luminous  track  of  the  light  on  the  Eiffel  Tower. 
The  two  women  went  into  the  house,  and  Maxime,  tired 
of  sitting  down,  ran  about  the  garden  with  his  little  dog, 
while  through  the  open  windows  floated  out  an  air  of 
Schumann's,  which  Rosine,  full  of  timid  emotion,  was  play- 
ing on  the  piano.  Clerambault  left  alone,  threw  himself 
back  in  his  wicker  chair,  glad  to  be  a  man,  to  be  alive, 
breathing  in  the  balm  of  this  summer  night  with  a  thankful 
heart. 


Six  days  later  .  .  .  Clerambault  had  spent  the  after- 
noon in  the  woods,  and  like  the  monk  in  the  legend,  lying 
under  an  oak  tree,  drinking  in  the  song  of  a  lark,  a  hun- 
dred years  might  have  gone  by  him  like  a  day.  He  could 
not  tear  himself  away  till  night-fall.  Maxime  met  him  in 
the  vestibule;  he  came  forward  smiling  but  rather  pale,  and 
said:  "  Well,  Papa,  we  are  in  for  it  this  time!  "  and  he 
told  him  the  news.  The  Russian  mobilisation,  the  state  of 
war  in  Germany; — Clerambault  stared  at  him  unable  to 
comprehend,  his  thoughts  were  so  far  removed  from  these 
dark  follies.  He  tried  to  dispute  the  facts,  but  the  news 
was  explicit,  and  so  they  went  to  the  table,  where  Cleram- 
bault could  eat  but  little. 

He  sought  for  reasons  why  these  two  crimes  should  lead 
to  nothing.  Common-sense,  public  opinion,  the  prudence 
of  governments,  the  repeated  assurances  of  the  socialists, 
Jaures'  firm  stand; — Maxime  let  him  talk,  he  was  thinking 
of  other  things, — like  his  dog  with  his  ears  pricked  up  for 
the  sounds  of  the  ni^t.  .  .  .  Such  a  pure  lovely  night! 
Those  who  recall  the  last  evenings  of  July,  19 14,  and  the 
even  more  beautiful  evening  of  the  first  day  of  August, 
must  keep  in  their  minds  the  wonderful  splendour  of 
Nature,  as  with  a  smile  of  pity  she  stretched  out  her  arms 
to  the  degraded,  self-devouring  human  race. 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  when  Clerambault  ceased  to 
talk,  for  no  one  had  answered  him.  They  sat  then  in 
silence  withi  heavy  hearts,  listlessly  occupied  or  seeming  to 
be,  the  women  with  their  work,  Clerambault  with  his  eyes, 
but  not  his  mind,  on  a  book.  Maxime  went  out  on  the  porch 
and  smoked,  leaning  on  the  railing  and  looking  down  on 

12 


CLERAMBAULT  13 

the  sleeping  garden  and  the  fairy-like  play  of  the  light 
and  shadows  on  the  path. 

The  telephone  bell  made  them  start.  Someone  was  call- 
ing Clerambault,  who  went  slowly  to  answer,  half-asleep' 
and  absent  so  that  at  first  he  did  not  understand ;  "  Hullo ! 
is  that  you,  old  man?  "  as  he  recognised  the  voice  of  a 
brother-author  in  Paris,  telephoning  him  from  a  newspaper 
office.  Still  he  could  not  seem  to  understand;  "I  don't 
hear, — Jaures?  What  about  Jaures?  .  .  .  Oh,  my  God!  " 
Maxime  full  of  a  secret  apprehension  had  listened  from  a 
distance;  he  ran  and  caught  the  receiver  from  his  father's 
hand,  as  Clerambault  let  it  drop  with  a  despairing  gesture. 
"Hullo,  Hullo!  What  do  you  say?  Jaures  assassinated! 
..."  As  exclamations  of  pain  and  anger  crossed  each 
other  on  the  wire,  Maxime  made  out  the  details,  which  he 
repeated  to  his  family  in  a  trembling  voice.  Rosine  had 
led  Clerambault  back  to  the  table,  where  he  sat  down  com- 
pletely crushed.  Like  the  classic  Fate,  the  shadow  of  a 
terrible  misfortune  settled  over  the  house.  It  was  not  only 
the  loss  of  his  friend  that  chilled  his  heart, — the  kind  gay 
face,  the  cordial  hand,  the  voice  which  drove  away  the 
clouds, — but  the  loss  of  the  last  hope  of  the  threatened 
people.  With  a  touching,  child-like  confidence  he  felt 
Jaures  to  be  the  only  man  who  could  avert  the  gathering 
storm,  and  he  fallen,  like  Atlas,  the  sky  would  crumble. 

Maxime  rushed  off  to  the  station  to  get  the  news  in  Paris, 
promising  to  come  back  later  in  the  evening,  but  Cleram- 
bault stayed  in  the  isolated  house,  from  which  in  the  dis- 
tance could  be  seen  the  far-off  phosphorescence  of  the  city. 
He  had  not  stirred  from  the  seat  where  he  had  fallen  stupi- 
fied.  This  time  he  could  no  longer  doubt,  the  catastrophe 
was  coming,  was  upon  them  already.  Madame  Clerambault 
begged  him  to  go  to  bed,  but  he  would  not  listen  to  her. 
His  thought  was  in  ruins;  he  could  distinguish  nothing 
steady  or  constant,  could  not  see  any  order,  or  follow  an 


il^  CXERAMBAULT 

idea,  for  tlie  walls  of  his  inward  dwelling  had  fallen  in,  and 
through  the  dust  which  rose,  it  was  impossible  to  see  what 
remained  intact.  He  feared  there  was  nothing  left  but  a 
mass  of  suffering,  at  which  he  looked  with  dull  eyes,  uncon- 
scious of  his  failing  tears.  Maxime  did  not  come  home, 
carried  away  by  the  excitement  at  Paris. 

Madame  Clerambault  had  gone  to  bed,  but  about  one 
o'clock  she  came  and  persuaded  him  to  come  up  to  their 
room,  where  he  lay  down;  but  when  Pauline  had  fallen 
asleep — anxiety  made  her  sleepy — ^he  got  up  and  went  into 
the  next  room.  He  groaned,  unable  to  breathe;  his  pain 
was  so  close  and  oppressive,  that  he  had  no  room  to  draw 
his  breath.  With  the  prophetic  hyper-sensitiveness  of  the 
artist,  who  often  lives  in  tomorrow  with  more  intensity  than 
in  the  present  moment,  his  agonised  eyes  and  heart  foresaw 
all  that  was  to  be.  This  inevitable  war  between  the  greatest 
nations  of  the  world,  seemed  to  him  the  failure  of  civilisa- 
tion, the  ruin  of  the  most  sacred  hopes  for  human  brother- 
hood. He  was  filled  with  horror  at  the  vision  of  a  maddened 
humanity,  sacrificing  its  most  precious  treasures,  strength, 
and  genius,  its  highest  virtues,  to  the  bestial  idol  of  war. 
It  was  to  him  a  moral  agony,  a  heart-rending  communion 
with  these  unhappy  millions.  To  what  end?  And  of  what 
use  had  been  all  the  efforts  of  the  ages?  His  heart  seemed 
gripped  by  the  void;  he  felt  he  could  no  longer  live 
if  his  faith  in  the  reason  of  men  and  their  mutual  love 
was  destroyed,  if  he  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that  the 
Credo  of  his  life  and  art  rested  on  a  mistake,  that  a  dark 
pessimism  was  the  answer  to  the  riddle  of  the  world. 

He  turned  his  eyes  away  in  terror,  he  was  afraid  to  look 
it  in  the  face,  this  monster  who  was  there,  whose  hot 
breath  he  felt  upon  him.  Clerambault  implored, — ^he  did 
not  know  who  or  what — that  this  might  not  be,  that  it 
might  not  be.  Anything  rather  than  this  should  be  true!- 
But  the  devouring  fact  stood  just  behind  the  opening  door. 


CLERAMBAULT  15 

.    .    .  Through  the  whole  night  he  strove  to  close  that 
door.  .   .  . 

At  last  towards  mornmg,  an  animal  instinct  began  to 
wake,  coming  from  he  did  not  know  where,  which  turned  his 
despair  towards  the  secret  need  of  finding  a  definite  and 
concrete  cause,  to  fasten  the  blame  on  a  man,  or  a 
group  of  men,  and  angrily  hold  them  responsible  for  the 
misery  of  the  world.  It  was  as  yet  but  a  brief  appari- 
tion, the  first  faint  sign  of  a  strange  obscure,  imperious 
soul,  ready  to  break  forth,  the  soul  of  the  multitude.  .  .  . 
It  began  to  take  shape  when  Maxime  came  home,  for 
after  the  night  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  he  fairly  sweated 
with  it;  his  very  clothes,  the  hairs  of  his  head,  were  im- 
pregnated. Worn  out,  excited,  he  could  not  sit  down;  his 
only  thought  was  to  go  back  again.  The  decree  of  mobili- 
sation was  to  come  out  that  day,  war  was  certain,  it  was 
necessary,  beneficial;  some  things  must  be  put  an  end  to, 
the  future  of  humanity  was  at  stake,  the  freedom  of  the 
world  was  threatened.  "  They  "  had  counted  on  Jaures' 
murder  to  sow  dissension  and  raise  riots  in  the  country  they 
meant  to  attack,  but  the  entire  nation  had  risen  to  rally 
round  its  leaders,  the  sublime  days  of  the  great  Revolution 
were  re-born.  .  .  .  Clerambault  did  not  discuss  these  state- 
ments, he  merely  asked:  "  Do  you  think  so?  Are  you  quite 
sure?  "  It  was  a  sort  of  hidden  appeal.  He  wanted 
Maxime  to  state,  to  redouble  his  assertions.  The  news 
Maxime  had  brought  added  to  the  chaos,  raised  it  to  a 
climax,  but  at  the  same  time  it  began  to  direct  the  dis- 
tracted forces  of  his  mind  towards  a  fixed  point,  as  the 
first  bark  of  the  shepherd's  dog  drives  the  sheep  together. 

Clerambault  had  but  one  wish  left,  to  rejoin  the  flock,  rub 
himself  against  the  human  animals,  his  brothers,  feel  with 
them,  act  with  them.  .  .  .  Though  exhausted  by  sleepless- 
ness, he  started,  in  spite  of  his  wife,  to  take  the  train  for 
Paris  with  Maxime.    They  had  to  wait  a  long  time  at  the 


i6  CLERAMBAULT 

station,  and  also  in  the  train,  for  the  tracks  were  blocked, 
and  the  cars  crowded ;  but  in  the  common  agitation  Cleram- 
bault  found  calm.  He  questioned  and  listened,  everybody 
fraternised,  and  not  being  sure  yet  what  they  thought,  every- 
one felt  that  they  thought  alike.  The  same  questions,  the 
same  trials  menaced  them,  but  each  man  was  no  longer 
alone  to  stand  or  fall,  and  the  warmth  of  this  contact  was 
reassuring.  Class  distinctions  were  gone;  no  more  work- 
men or  gentlemen,  no  one  looked  at  your  clothes  or  your 
hands;  they  only  looked  at  your  eyes  where  they  saw  the 
same  flame  of  life,  wavering  before  the  same  impending 
death.  All  these  people  were  so  visibly  strangers  to  the 
causes  of  the  fatality,  of  this  catastrophe,  that  their  inno- 
cence led  them  like  children  to  look  elsewhere  for  the 
guilty.  It  comforted  and  quieted  their  conscience.  Cler- 
ambault  breathed  more  easily  when  he  got  to  Paris.  A 
stoical  and  virile  melancholy  had  succeeded  to  the  agony 
of  the  nig^t.    He  was  however  only  at  the  first  stage. 


The  order  for  general  mobilisation  had  just  been  affixed 
to  the  doors  of  the  Mairies.  People  read  and  re-read  them 
in  silence,  then  went  away  without  a  word.  After  the 
anxious  waiting  of  the  preceding  days,  with  crowds 
around  the  newspaper  booths,  people  sitting  on  the  side- 
walk watching  for  the  news,  and  when  the  paper  was 
issued  gathering  in  groups  to  read  it,  this  was  certainty. 
It  was  also  a  relief.  An  obscure  danger,  that  one  feels 
approaching  without  knowing  when  or  from  where,  makes 
you  feverish,  but  when  it  is  there  you  can  take  breath, 
look  it  in  the  face,  and  roll  up  your  sleeves.  There  had 
been  some  hours  of  deep  thought  while  Paris  made  ready 
and  doubled  up  her  fists.  Then  that  which  swelled  in  all 
hearts  spread  itself  abroad,  the  houses  were  emptied  and 
there  rolled  through  the  streets  a  human  flood  of  which 
every  drop  sought  to  melt  into  another. 

Clerambaul't  fell  into  the  midst  and  was  swallowed  up. 
All  at  once.  He  had  scarcely  left  the  station,  or  set  his  foot 
on  the  pavement.  Nothing  happened;  there  were  no  words 
or  gestures,  but  the  serene  exaltation  of  the  flood  flowed  into 
him.  The  people  were  as  yet  pure  from  violence;  they  knew 
and  believed  themselves  innocent,  and  in  these  first  hours 
when  the  war  was  virgin,  millions  of  hearts  burned  with 
a  solemn  and  sacred  enthusiasm.  Into  this  proud,  calm 
intoxication  there  entered  a  feeling  of  the  injustice  done 
to  them,  a  legitimate  pride  in  their  strength,  in  the  sacri- 
fices that  they  were  ready  to  make,  and  pity  for  others,  now 
parts  of  themselves,  their  brothers,  their  children,  their  loved 
ones.  All  were  flesh  of  their  flesh,  closely  drawn  together  in  a 
superhuman  embrace,  conscious  of  the  gigantic  body  formed 
by  their  union,  and  of  the  apparition  above  their  heads  of 

17 


i8  CLERAMBAULT 

the  phantom  which  incarnated  this  union,  the  Country. 
Half-beast,  half-god,  like  the  Egyptian  Sphinx,  or  the 
Assyrian  Bull;  but  then  men  saw  only  the  shiping  eyes,  the 
feet  were  hid.  She  was  the  divine  monster  in  whom  each 
of  the  living  found  himself  multiplied,  the  devouring  Im- 
mortality where  those  about  to  die  wished  to  believe  they 
would  find  life,  super-life,  crowned  with  glory.  Her  invisible 
presence  flowed  through  the  air  like  wine;  each  man 
brought  something  to  the  vintage,  his  basket,  his  bunch  of 
grapes; — ^his  ideas,  passions,  devotions,  interests.  There 
was  many  a  nasty  worm  among  the  grapes,  much  j&lth 
under  the  trampling  feet,  but  the  wine  was  of  rubies  and 
set  the  heart  aflame; — Clerambault  gulped  it  down  greedily. 
Nevertheless  he  was  not  entirely  metamorphosed,  for  his 
soul  was  not  altered,  it  was  only  forgotten;  as  soon  as 
he  was  alone  he  could  hear  it  moaning,  and  for  this  reason 
he  avoided  solitude.  He  persisted  in  not  returning  to  St. 
Prix,  where  the  family  usually  stayed  in  summer,  and  re- 
installed himself  in  his  apartment  at  Paris,  on  the  fifth 
floor  in  the  Rue  d'Assas.  He  would  not  wait  a  week,  or 
go  back  to  help  in  the  moving.  He  craved  the  friendly 
warmth  that  rose  up  from  Paris,  and  poured  in  at  his  win- 
dows; any  excuse  was  enough  to  plunge  into  it,  to  go  down 
into  the  streets,  join  the  groups,  follow  the  processions,  buy 
all  the  newspapers, — ^which  he  despised  as  a  rule.  He  would 
come  back  more  and  more  demoralised,  anaesthetised  as 
to  what  passed  within  him,  the  habit  of  his  conscience 
broken,  a  stranger  in  his  house,  in  himself; — ^and  that  is 
why  he  felt  more  at  home  out  of  doors  than  in. 


Madame  Clerambault  came  back  to  Paris  with  her 
daughter,  and  the  first  evening  after  their  arrival  Cleram- 
bault carried  Rosine  off  to  the  Boulevards.  The  solemn 
fervour  of  the  first  days  had  passed.  War  had  begun,  and 
truth  was  imprisoned.  The  press,  the  arch-liar,  poured 
into  the  open  mouth  of  the  world  the  poisonous  liquor  of 
its  stories  of  victories  without  retribution;  Paris  was  decked 
as  for  a  holiday;  the  houses  streamed  with  the  tricolour 
from  top  to  bottom,  and  in  the  poorer  quarters  each  garret 
window  had  its  little  penny  flag,  like  a  flower  in  the  hair. 

On  the  corner  of  the  Faubourg  Montmartre  they  met  a 
strange  procession.  At  the  head  marched  a  tall  old  man 
carrying  a  flag.  He  walked  with  long  strides,  free  and 
supple  as  if  he  were  going  to  leap  or  dance,  and  the  skirts 
of  his  overcoat  flapped  in  the  wind.  Behind  came  an  in- 
distinct, compact,  howling  mass,  gentle  and  simple,  arm  in 
arm, — a  child  carried  on  a  shoulder,  a  girl's  red  mop  of  hair 
between  a  chauffeur's  cap  and  the  helmet  of  a  soldier. 
Chests  out,  chins  raised,  mouths  open  like  black  holes, 
shouting  the  Marseillaise.  To  right  and  left  of  the  ranks, 
a  double  line  of  jail-bird  faces,  along  the  curbstone,  ready 
to  insult  any  absent-minded  passer-by  who  failed  to  salute 
the  colours.  Rosine  was  startled  to  see  her  father  fall  into 
step  at  the  end  of  the  line,  bare-headed,  singing  and  talking 
aloud.  He  drew  his  daughter  along  by  the  arm,  without 
noticing  the  nervous  fingers  that  tried  to  hold  him  back. 

When  they  came  in  Clerambault  was  still  talkative  and 
excited.  He  kept  on  for  hours,  while  the  two  women  listened 
to  him  patiently.  Madame  Clerambault  heard  little  as 
usual,  and  played  chorus.    Rosine  did  not  say  a  word,  but 

19 


20  CLERAMBAULT 

she  stealthily  threw  a  glance  at  her  father,  and  her  look 
was  like  freezing  water. 

Clerambault  was  exciting  himself;  he  was  not  yet  at  the 
bottom,  but  he  was  conscientiously  trying  to  reach  it. 
Nevertheless  there  remained  to  him  enough  lucidity  to 
alarm  him  at  his  own  progress.  An  artist  yields  more 
through  his  sensibility  to  waves  of  emotion  which  reach 
him  from  without,  but  to  resist  them  he  has  also  weapons 
which  others  have  not.  For  the  least  reflective,  he  who 
abandons  himself  to  his  lyrical  impulses,  has  in  some  degree 
the  faculty  of  introspection  which  it  rests  with  him  to 
utilise.  If  he  does  not  do  this,  he  lacks  good-will  more 
than  power;  he  is  afraid  to  look  too  clearly  at  himself  for 
fear  of  seeing  an  unflattering  picture.  Those  however  who, 
like  Clerambault,  have  the  virtue  of  sincerity  without 
psychological  gifts,  are  sufficiently  well-equipped  to  exer- 
cise some  control  over  their  excitability. 

One  day  as  he  was  walking  alone,  he  saw  a  crowd  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street,  he  crossed  over  calmly  and  found 
himself  on  the  opposite  sidewalk  in  the  midst  of  a  confused 
agitation  circling  about  an  invisible  point.  With  some  diffi- 
culty he  worked  his  way  forward,  and  scarcely  was  he  within 
this  human  mill-wheel,  than  he  felt  himself  a  part  of  the  rim, 
his  brain  seemed  turning  round.  At  the  centre  of  the 
wheel  he  saw  a  struggling  man,  and  even  before  he  grasped 
the  reason  for  the  popular  fury,  he  felt  that  he  shared  it. 
He  did  not  know  if  a  spy  was  in  question,  or  if  it  was  some 
imprudent  speaker  who  had  braved  the  passions  of  the  mob, 
but  as  cries  rose  around  him,  he  realised  that  he,  yes  he, 
Clerambault,  had  shrieked  out:    ..."  Kill  him."   .    .    . 

A  movement  of  the  crowd  threw  him  out  from  the  side- 
walk, a  carriage  separated  him  from  it,  and  when  the  way 
was  clear  the  mob  surged  on  after  its  prey.  Clerambault 
followed  it  with  his  eyes;  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  was 
still  in  his  ears, — ^he  did  not  feel  proud  of  himself.  .    .   . 


CLERAMBAULT  21 

From  that  day  on  he  went  out  less;  he  distrusted  him- 
self, but  he  continued  to  stimulate  his  intoxication  at  home, 
where  he  felt  himself  safe,  little  knowing  the  virulence  of 
the  plague.  The  infection  came  in  through  the  cracks  of 
the  doors,  at  the  windows,  on  the  printed  page,  in  every 
contact.  The  most  sensitive  breathe  it  in  on  first  entering 
the  city,  before  they  have  seen  or  read  anything;  with 
others  a  passing  touch  is  enough,  the  disease  will  develop 
afterwards  alone.  Clerambault,  withdrawn  from  the  crowd, 
had  caught  the  contagion  from  it,  and  the  evil  announced 
itself  by  the  usual  premonitory  symptoms.  This  affection- 
ate tender-hearted  man  hated,  loved  to  hate.  His  intelli- 
gence, which  had  always  been  thoroughly  straightforward, 
tried  now  to  trick  itself  secretly,  to  justify  its  instincts  of 
hatred  by  inverted  reasoning.  He  learned  to  be  passion- 
ately unjust  and  false,  for  he  wanted  to  persuade  himself 
that  he  could  accept  the  fact  of  war,  and  participate  in  it, 
without  renouncing  his  pacifism  of  yesterday,  his  humani- 
tarianism  of  the  day  before,  and  his  constant  optimism. 
It  was  not  plain  sailing,  but  there  is  nothing  that  the  brain 
cannot  attain  to.  When  its  master  thinks  it  absolutely 
necessary  to  get  rid  for  a  time  of  principles  which  are  in 
his  way,  it  finds  in  these  same  principles  the  exception 
which  violates  them  while  confirming  the  rule.  Clerambault 
began  to  construct  a  thesis,  an  ideal — absurd  enough — in 
which  these  contradictions  could  be  reconciled:  War  against 
War,  War  for  Peace,  for  eternal  Peace. 


The  enthusiasm  of  his  son  was  a  great  help  to  him. 
Maxime  had  enlisted.  His  generation  was  carried  away  on 
a  wave  of  heroic  joy;  they  had  waited  so  long — they  had 
not  dared  to  expect  an  opportunity  for  action  and  sacrifice. 

Older  men  who  had  never  tried  to  understand  them,  stood 
amazed ;  they  remembered  their  own  commonplace,  bungling 
youth,  full  of  petty  egotisms,  small  ambitions,  and  mean 
pleasures.  As  they  could  not  recognise  themselves  in  their 
children  they  attributed  to  the  war  this  flowering  of  virtues 
which  had  been  growing  up  for  twenty  years  around  their 
indifference  and  which  the  war  was  about  to  reap.  Even 
near  a  father  as  large-minded  as  Clerambault,  Maxime  was 
blighted.  Clerambault  was  interested  in  spreading  his  own 
overflowing  diffuse  nature,  too  much  so  to  see  clearly  and 
aid  those  whom  he  loved:  he  brought  to  them  the  warm 
shadow  of  his  thought,  but  he  stood  between  them  and 
the  sun. 

These  young  people  sought  employment  for  their  strength 
which  really  embarrassed  them,  but  they  did  not  find  it  in 
the  ideals  of  the  noblest  among  their  elders;  the  humani- 
tarianism  of  a  Clerambault  was  too  vague,  it  contented  itself 
with  pleasant  hopes,  without  risk  or  vigour,  which  the 
quietude  of  a  generation  grown  old  in  the  talkative  peace 
of  Parliaments  and  Academies,  alone  could  have  permitted. 
Except  as  an  oratorical  exercise  it  had  never  tried  to  foresee 
the  perils  of  the  future,  still  less  had  it  thought  to  deter- 
mine its  attitude  in  the  day  when  the  danger  should  be 
near.  It  had  not  the  strength  to  make  a  choice  between 
widely  differing  courses  of  action.  One  might  be  a  patriot 
as  well  as  an  internationalist  or  build  in  imagination  peace 
palaces  or  super-dreadnoughts,  for  one  longed  to  know,  to 

22 


CLERAMBAULT  23 

embrace,  and  to  love  everything.  This  languid  Whitmanism 
might  have  its  aesthetic  value,  but  its  practical  incoherence 
offered  no  guide  to  young  people  when  they  found  them- 
selves at  the  parting  of  the  ways.  They  pawed  the  ground 
trembling  with  impatience  at  all  this  uncertainty  and  the 
uselessness  of  their  time  as  it  went  by. 

They  welcomed  the  war,  for  it  put  an  end  to  all  this 
indecision,  it  chose  for  them,  and  they  made  haste  to  follow 
it.  "We  go  to  our  death, — so  be  it;  but  to  go  is  life." 
The  battalions  went  off  singing,  thrilling  with  impatience, 
dahlias  in  their  hats,  the  muskets  adorned  with  flowers. 
Discharged  soldiers  re-enlisted;  boys  put  their  names  down, 
their  mothers  urging  them  to  it;  you  would  have  thought 
they  were  setting  out  for  the  Olympian  games. 

It  was  the  same  with  the  young  men  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Rhine,  and  there  as  here,  they  were  escorted  by  their 
gods:  Country,  Justice,  Right,  Liberty,  Progress  of  the 
World,  Eden-like  dreams  of  re-born  humanity,  a  whole 
phantasmagoria  of  mystic  ideas  in  which  young  men 
shrouded  their  passions.  None  doubted  that  his  cause  was 
the  right  one,  they  left  discussion  to  others,  themselves  the 
living  proof,  for  he  who  gives  his  life  needs  no  further 
argument. 

The  older  men  however  who  stayed  behind,  had  not 
their  reasons  for  ceasing  to  reason.  Their  brains  were 
given  to  them  to  be  used,  not  for  truth,  but  for  victory. 
Since  in  the  wars  of  today,  in  which  entire  peoples  are 
engulfed,  thoughts  as  well  as  guns  are  enrolled.  They  slay 
the  soul,  they  reach  beyond  the  seas,  and  destroy  after 
centuries  have  passed.  Thought  is  the  heavy  artillery 
which  works  from  a  distance.  Naturally  Clerambault  aimed 
his  pieces,  also  the  question  for  him  was  no  longer  to  see 
clearly,  largely,  to  take  in  the  horizon,  but  to  sight  the 
enemy, — it  gave  him  the  illusion  that  he  was  helping  his 
son. 


24  CLERAMBAULT 

With  an  unconscious  and  feverish  bad  faith  kept  up  by 
his  affection,  he  sought  in  everything  that  he  saw,  heard, 
or  read,  for  arguments  to  prop  up  his  will  to  believe  in  the 
holiness  of  the  cause,  for  everything  which  went  to  prove 
that  the  enemy  alone  had  wanted  war,  was  the  sole  enemy 
of  peace,  and  that  to  make  war  on  the  enemy  was  really 
to  wish  for  peace. 

There  was  proof  enough  and  to  spare;  there  always  is; 
all  that  is  needed  is  to  know  when  to  open  and  shut  your 
eyes.  .  .  .  But  nevertheless  Clerambault  was  not  entirely 
satisfied.  These  half-truths,  or  truths  with  false  tails  to 
them,  produced  a  secret  uneasiness  in  the  conscience  of  this 
honest  man,  showing  itself  in  a  passionate  irritation  against 
the  enemy,  which  grew  more  and  more.  On  the  same 
lines — like  two  buckets  in  a  well,  one  going  up  as  the  other 
goes  down — ^his  patriotic  enthusiasm  grew  and  drowned  the 
last  torments  of  his  mind  in  a  salutary  intoxication. 

From  now  on  he  was  on  the  watch  for  the  smallest  news- 
paper items  in  support  of  his  theory;  and  though  he  knew 
what  to  think  of  the  veracity  of  these  sheets,  he  did  not 
doubt  them  for  an  instant  when  their  assertions  fed  his 
eager  restless  passion.  Where  the  enemy  was  concerned  he 
adopted  the  principle,  that  the  worst  is  sure  to  be  true — 
and  he  was  almost  grateful  to  Germany  when,  by  acts  of 
cruelty  and  repeated  violations  of  justice,  she  furnished  him 
the  solid  confirmation  of  the  sentence  which,  for  greater 
security,  he  had  pronounced  in  advance. 

Germany  gave  him  full  measure.  Never  did  a  country 
at  war  seem  more  anxious  to  raise  the  universal  conscience 
against  her.  This  apoplectic  nation  bursting  with  strength, ' 
threw  itself  upon  its  adversary-  in  a  delirium  of  pride,  anger 
and  fear.  The  human  beast  let  loose,  traced  a  ring  of 
systematic  horror  around  him  from  the  first.  All  his  in- 
stinctive and  acquired  brutalities  were  cleverly  excited  by 
those  who  held  him  in  leash,  by  his  official  chiefs,  his  great 


CLERAMBAULT  25 

General  Staff,  his  enrolled  professors,  his  army  chaplains. 
War  has  always  been,  will  forever  remain,  a  crime ;  but  Ger- 
many organised  it  as  she  did  everything.  She  made  a  code 
for  murder  and  conflagration,  and  over  it  all  she  poured  the 
boiling  oil  of  an  enraged  mysticism,  made  up  of  Bismarck, 
of  Nietzsche,  and  of  the  Bible.  In  order  to  crush  the  world 
and  regenerate  it,  the  Super-Man  and  Christ  were  mobilised. 
The  regeneration  began  in  Belgium — a  thousand  years  from 
now  men  will  tell  of  it.  The  affrighted  world  looked  on 
at  the  infernal  spectacle  of  the  ancient  civilisation  of 
Europe,  more  than  two  thousand  years  old,  crumbling 
under  the  savage  expert  blows  of  the  great  nation  which 
formed  its  advance  guard.  Germany,  rich  in  intelligence, 
in  science  and  in  power,  in  a  fortnight  of  war  became 
docile  and  degraded;  but  what  the  organisers  of  this  Ger- 
manic frenzy  failed  to  foresee  was  that,  like  army  cholera, 
it  would  spread  to  the  other  camp,  and  once  installed  in 
the  hostile  countries  it  could  not  be  dislodged  until  it  had 
infected  the  whole  of  Europe,  and  rendered  it  uninhabitable 
for  centuries.  In  all  the  madness  of  this  atrocious  war,  in 
all  its  violence,  Germany  set  the  example.  Her  big  body, 
better  fed,  more  fleshly  than  others,  offered  a  greater 
target  to  the  attacks  of  the  epidemic.  It  was  terrible;  but 
by  the  time  the  evil  began  to  abate  with  her,  it  had  pene- 
trated elsewhere  and  under  the  form  of  a  slow  tenrxious 
disease  it  ate  to  the  very  bone.  To  the  insanities  of  German 
thinkers,  speakers  in  Paris  and  everywhere  were  not  slow 
to  respond  with  their  extravagances;  they  were  like  the 
heroes  in  Homer;  but  if  they  did  not  fight,  they  screamed 
all  the  louder.  They  insulted  not  only  the  adversary,  they 
insulted  his  father,  his  grandfather,  and  his  entire  race; 
better  still  they  denied  his  past.  The  tiniest  academician 
worked  furiously  to  diminish  the  glory  of  the  great  men 
asleep  in  the  peace  of  the  grave. 
Clerambault  listened  and  listened,  absorbed,  though  he 


26  CLERAMBAULT 

was  one  of  the  few  French  poets  who  before  the  war  had 
European  relations  and  whose  work  would  have  been  appre- 
ciated in  Germany.  He  spoke  no  foreign  language,  it  is 
true;  petted  old  child  of  France  that  he  was,  who  would 
not  take  the  trouble  to  visit  other  people,  sure  that  they 
would  come  to  him.  But  at  least  he  welcomed  them  kindly, 
his  mind  was  free  from  national  prejudices,  and  the  intui- 
tions of  his  heart  made  up  for  his  lack  of  instruction  and 
caused  him  to  pour  out  without  stint  his  admiration  for 
foreign  genius.  But  now  that  he  had  been  warned  to  dis- 
trust everything,  by  the  constant:  "  Keep  still, — take 
care,"  and  knew  that  Kant  led  straight  to  Krupp,  he  dared 
admire  nothing  without  official  sanction.  The  sympathetic 
modesty  that  caused  him  in  times  of  peace  to  accept  with 
the  respect  due  to  words  of  Holy  Writ  the  publications  of 
learned  and  distinguished  men,  now  in  the  war  took  on  the 
proportions  of  a  fabulous  credulity.  He  swallowed  without 
a  gulp  the  strange  discoveries  made  at  this  time  by  the 
intellectuals  of  his  country,  treading  under  foot  the  art, 
the  intelligence,  the  science  of  the  enemy  throughout  the 
centuries;  an  effort  frantically  disingenuous,  which  denied 
all  genius  to  our  adversary,  and  either  found  in  its  highest 
claims  to  glory  the  mark  of  its  present  infamy  or  rejected 
its  achievements  altogether  and  bestowed  them  on  another 
race. 

Clerambault    was    overwhelmed,    beside    himself,    but 
(though  he  did  not  admit  it),  in  his  heart  he  was  glad. 


Seeking  for  someone  to  share  in  his  excitement  and 
keep  it  up  by  fresh  arguments,  he  went  to  his  friend 
Perrotin. 

Hippolyte  Perrotin  was  of  one  of  those  types,  formerly 
the  pride  of  the  higher  instruction  in  France  but  seldom 
met  with  in  these  days — a  great  humanist.  Led  by  a  wide 
and  sagacious  curiosity,  he  walked  calmly  through  the  gar- 
den of  the  centuries,  botanising  as  he  went.  The  spectacle 
of  the  present  was  the  object  least  worthy  of  his  attention, 
but  he  was  too  keen  an  observer  to  miss  any  of  it,  and 
knew  how  to  draw  it  gently  back  into  scale  to  fit  into  the 
whole  picture.  Events  which  others  regarded  as  most  im- 
portant were  not  so  in  his  eyes,  and  political  agitations  ap- 
peared to  him  like  bugs  on  a  rose-bush  which  he  would 
carefully  study  with  its  parasites.  This  was  to  him  a  con- 
stant source  of  delight.  He  had  the  finest  appreciation  of 
shades  of  literary  beauty,  and  his  learning  rather  increased 
than  impaired  the  faculty,  giving  to  his  thought  an  infinite 
range  of  highly-flavoured  experiences  to  taste  and  compare. 
He  belonged  to  the  great  French  tradition  of  learned  men, 
master  writers  from  Buffon  to  Renan  and  Gaston  Paris. 
Member  of  the  Academy  and  of  several  Classes,  his  extended 
knowledge  gave  him  a  superiority,  not  only  of  pure  and 
classic  taste,  but  of  a  liberal  modern  spirit,  over  his  col- 
leagues, genuine  men  of  letters.  He  did  not  think  himself 
exempt  from  study,  as  most  of  them  did,  as  soon  as  they 
had  passed  the  threshold  of  the  sacred  Cupola;  old  pro- 
fesor  as  he  was,  he  still  went  to  school.  When  Clerambault 
was  still  unknown  to  the  rest  of  the  Immortals,  except 
to  one  or  two  brother  poets  who  mentioned  him  as  little 
as  possible  with  a  disdainful  smile,  Perrotin  had  already  dis- 


28  CLERAMBAULT 

covered  and  placed  him  in  his  collection,  struck  by  certain 
pictures,  an  original  phraseology,  the  mechanism  of  his 
imagination,  primitive  yet  complicated  by  simplicity.  All 
this  attracted  him,  and  then  the  man  interested  him  too. 
He  sent  a  short  complimentary  note  to  Clerambault  who 
came  to  thank  him,  overflowing  with  gratitude,  and  ties  of 
friendship  were  formed  between  the  two  men.  They  had 
few  points  of  resemblance;  Clerambault  had  lyrical  gifts 
and  ordinary  intelligence  dominated  by  his  feelings,  and 
Perrotin  was  gifted  with  a  most  lucid  mind,  never  ham- 
pered by  flights  of  the  imagination.  What  they  had  in 
common  were  dignity  of  life,  intellectual  probity,  and  a 
disinterested  love  of  art  and  learning,  for  its  own  sake,  and 
not  for  success.  None  the  less  as  may  be  seen,  this  had 
not  prevented  Perrotin  from  getting  on  in  the  world; 
honours  and  places  had  sought  him,  not  he  them;  but  he 
did  not  reject  them;  he  neglected  nothing. 

Clerambault  found  him  busy  unwinding  the  wrappings 
with  which  the  readers  of  centuries  had  covered  over  the 
original  thought  of  a  Chinese  philosopher.  At  this  game 
which  was  habitual  with  him,  he  came  naturally  to  the 
discovery  of  the  contrary  of  what  appeared  at  first  to  be 
the  meaning;  passing  from  hand  to  hand  the  idol  had 
become  black. 

Perrotin  received  Clerambault  in  this  vein,  polite,  but  a 
trifle  absent-minded.  Even  when  he  listened  to  society 
gojsip  he  was  inwardly  critical,  tickling  his  sense  of  humour 
at  its  expense. 

Clerambault  spread  his  new  acquisitions  before  him, 
starting  from  the  recognised  unworthiness  of  the  enemy- 
nation  as  from  a  certain,  well-known  fact:  the  whole  ques- 
tion being  to  decide  if  one  should  see  in  this  the  irreme- 
diable decadence  of  a  great  people,  or  the  proof,  pure  and 
simple,  of  a  barbarism  which  had  always  existed,  but  hid- 
den from  sight.  Clerambault  inclined  to  the  latter  explana- 
tion, and  full  of  his  recent  information  he  held  Luther, 


(XERAMBAULT  29 

Kant  and  Wagner  responsible  for  the  violation  of  Belgian 
neutrality,  and  the  crimes  of  the  German  army.  He,  how- 
ever, to  use  a  colloquial  expression,  had  never  been  to  see 
for  himself,  being  neither  musician,  theologian,  or  meta- 
physician. He  trusted  to  the  word  of  Academicians,  and 
only  made  exceptions  in  favour  of  Beethoven,  who  was 
Flemish,  and  Goethe,  citizen  of  a  free  city  and  almost  a 
Strassburger,  which  is  half  French, — or  French  and  a  half. 
He  paused  for  approbation. 

He  was  surprised  not  to  find  in  Perrotin  an  ardour  cor- 
responding to  his  own.  His  friend  smiled,  listened,  con- 
templated Clerambault  with  an  attentive  and  benevolent 
curiosity.  He  did  not  say  no,  but  he  did  not  say  yes, 
either,  and  to  some  assertions  he  made  prudent  reserva- 
tions. When  Clerambault,  much  moved,  quoted  statement* 
signed  by  two  or  three  of  Perrotin's  illustrious  colleagues, 
the  latter  made  a  slight  gesture  as  much  as  to  say:  "  Ah, 
you  don't  say  so!  " 

Clerambault  grew  hotter  and  hotter,  and  Perrotin  then 
changed  his  attitude,  showing  a  keen  interest  in  the  judi- 
cious remarks  of  his  good  friend,  nodding  his  head  at  every 
word,  answering  direct  questions  by  vague  phrases,  assent- 
ing amiably  as  one  does  to  someone  whom  one  cannot  con- 
tradict. 

Clerambault  went  away  out  of  countenance  and  discon- 
tented, but  a  few  days  later  he  was  reassured  as  to  his 
friend,  when  he  read  Perrotin's  name  on  a  violent  protesta- 
tion of  the  Academies  against  the  barbarians.  He  wrote 
to  congratulate  him,  and  Perrotin  thanked  him  in  a  few 
prudent  and  sibylline  words: 

"  Dear  Sib," — he  affected  in  writing  the  studied,  cere- 
monious formulas  of  Monsieur  dc  Port-Royal — "  I  am 
ready  to  obey  any  suggestions  of  my  country,  for  me  they 
are  commands.  My  conscience  is  at  her  service,  according 
to  the  duty  of  every  good  citizen." 


One  of  the  most  curious  effects  of  the  war  on  the  mind, 
was  that  it  aroused  new  affinities  between  individuals. 
People  who  up  to  this  time  had  not  a  thought  in  common 
discovered  all  at  once  that  they  thought  alike;  and  this 
resemblance  drew  them  together.  It  was  what  people  called 
"  the  Sacred  Union."  Men  of  all  parties  and  tempera- 
ments, the  choleric,  the  phlegmatic,  monarchists,  anarchists, 
clericals,  Calvinists,  suddenly  forgot  their  everyday  selves, 
their  passions,  their  fads  and  their  antipathies, — shed  their 
skins.  And  there  before  you  were  now  creatures,  grouped  in 
an  unforeseen  manner,  like  metal  filings  round  an  invisible 
magnet.  All  the  old  categories  had  momentarily  disappeared, 
and  no  one  was  astonished  to  find  himself  closer  to  the 
stranger  of  yesterday  than  to  a  friend  of  many  years'  stand- 
ing. It  seemed  as  if,  underground,  souls  met  by  secret  roots 
that  stretched  through  the  night  of  instinct,  that  unknown 
region,  where  observation  rarely  ventures.  For  our  psy- 
chology stops  at  that  part  of  self  which  emerges  from  the 
soil,  noting  minutely  individual  differences,  but  forgetting 
that  this  is  only  the  top  of  the  plant,  that  nine-tenths  are 
buried,  the  feet  held  by  those  of  other  plants.  This  pro- 
found, or  lower,  region  of  the  soul  is  ordinarily  below  the 
threshold  of  consciousness,  the  mind  feels  nothing  of  it; 
but  the  war,  by  waking  up  this  underground  life,  revealed 
moral  relationships  which  no  one  had  suspected.  A  sudden 
intimacy  showed  itself  between  Clerambault  and  a  brother 
of  his  wife,  whom  he  had  looked  upon  until  now,  and  with 
good  reason,  as  the  t5^e  of  a  perfect  Philistine. 

Leo  Camus  was  not  quite  fifty  years  old.  He  was  tall, 
thin,  and  stooped  a  little;  his  skin  was  grey,  his  beard 
black,  not  much  hair  on  his  head, — ^you  could  see  the  bald 

30 


CLERAMBAULT  31 

spots  under  his  hat  behind, — little  wrinkles  everywhere, 
cutting  into  each  other,  crossing,  like  a  badly-made  net; 
add  to  this  a  frowning,  sulky  expression,  and  a  perpetual 
cold  in  the  head.  For  thirty  years  he  had  been  employed 
by  the  State,  and  his  life  had  passed  in  the  shadow  of  a 
court-yard  at  the  Department.  In  the  course  of  years  he 
had  changed  rooms,  but  not  shadows;  he  was  promoted, 
but  always  in  the  court-yard,  never  would  he  leave  it  in 
this  life.  He  was  now  Under-Secretary,  which  enabled  him 
to  throw  a  shadow  in  his  turn.  The  public  and  he  had 
few  points  of  contact,  and  he  only  communicated  with  the 
outside  world  across  a  rampart  of  pasteboard  boxes  and 
piles  of  documents.  He  was  an  old  bachelor  without 
friends,  and  he  held  the  misanthropical  opinion  that  dis- 
interested friendship  did  not  exist  upon  earth.  He  felt  no 
affection  except  for  his  sister's  family,  and  the  only  way 
that  he  showed  that  was  by  finding  fault  with  everything 
that  they  did.  He  was  one  of  those  people  whose  uneasy 
solicitude  causes  them  to  blame  those  they  love  when  they 
are  ill,  and  obstinately  prove  to  them  that  they  suffer  by 
their  own  fault. 

At  the  Clerambaults  no  one  minded  him  very  much. 
Madame  Clerambault  was  so  easy-going  that  she  rather 
liked  being  pushed  about  in  this  way,  and  as  for  the  chil- 
dren, they  knew  that  these  scoldings  were  sweetened  by 
little  presents;  so  they  pocketed  the  presents  and  let  the 
rest  go  by. 

The  conduct  of  Leo  Camus  towards  his  brother-in-law 
had  varied  with  time.  When  his  sister  had  married  Cler- 
ambault, Camus  had  not  hesitated  to  find  fault  with  the 
match;  an  unknown  poet  did  not  seem  to  him  "serious" 
enough.  Poetry — unknown  poetry — is  a  pretext  for  not 
working;  when  one  is  "  known,"  of  course  that  is  quite 
another  thing;  Camus  held  Hugo  in  high  esteem,  and  could 
even  recite  verses  from  the  "  Chatiments,"  or  from  Angus te 


32  CLERAMBAULT 

Barbier.  They  were  "  known/'  you  see,  and  that  made  all 
the  difference.  .  .  .  Just  at  this  time  Clerambault  him- 
self became  "  known,"  Camus  read  about  him  one  day  in 
his  favourite  paper,  and  after  that  he  consented  to  read 
Clerambault's  poems.  He  did  not  understand  them,  but 
he  bore  them  no  ill  will  on  that  account.  He  liked  to  call 
himself  old-fashioned,  it  made  him  feel  superior,  and  there 
are  many  in  the  world  like  him,  who  pride  themselves  on 
their  lack  of  comprehension.  For  we  must  all  plume  our- 
selves as  we  can;  some  of  us  on  what  we  have,  others  on 
what  we  have  not. 

Camus  was  willing  to  admit  that  Clerambault  could 
write.  He  knew  something  of  the  art  himself, — and  his 
respect  for  his  brother-in-law  increased  in  proportion  to  the 
"  puffs  "  he  read  in  the  papers,  and  he  liked  to  chat  with 
him.  He  had  always  appreciated  his  affectionate  kind- 
heartedness,  though  he  never  said  so,  and  what  pleased  also 
in  this  great  poet,  for  great  he  was  now,  was  his  manifest 
incapacity,  and  practical  ignorance  of  business  matters;  on 
this  ground  Camus  was  his  superior,  and  did  not  hesitate 
to  show  it.  Clerambault  had  a  simple-hearted  confidence 
in  his  fellow-man,  and  nothing  could  have  been  better  suited 
to  Camus'  aggressive  pessimism,  which  it  kept  in  working 
order.  The  greater  part  of  his  visits  was  spent  in  reducing 
Clerambault's  illusions  to  fragments,  but  they  had  as  many 
lives  as  a  cat,  and  every  time  he  came  it  had  to  be  done 
over  again.  This  irritated  Camus,  but  secretly  pleased 
him  for  he  needed  a  pretext  constantly  renewed  to  think 
the  world  bad,  and  men  a  set  of  imbeciles.  Above  all  he 
had  no  mercy  on  politicians;  this  Government  employee 
hated  Governments,  though  he  would  have  been  puzzled 
to  say  what  he  would  put  in  their  places.  The  only  form 
of  politics  that  he  understood  was  opposition.  He  suffered 
from  a  spoiled  life  and  thwarted  nature.  He  was  a 
peasant's  son  and  born  to  raise  grapes,  or  else  to  exercise 


CLERAMBAULT  '  33 

hiS'  authoritative  instincts  over  the  field  labourers,  like  a 
watch-dog.  Unfortunately,  diseases  of  the  vines  interfered 
and  also  the  pride  of  a  quill-driver;  the  family  moved  to 
town,  and  now  he  would  have  felt  it  a  derogation  to  return 
to  his  real  nature,  which  was  too  much  atrophied,  even  if 
he  had  wished  it.  Not  having  found  his  true  place  in 
society,  he  blamed  the  social  order,  serving  it,  as  do  mil- 
lions of  functionaries,  like  a  bad  servant,  an  underhand 
enemy. 

A  mind  of  this  sort,  peevish,  bitter,  misanthropical,  it 
seems  would  have  been  driven  crazy  by  the  war,  but  on 
the  contrary  it  served  to  tranquilise  it.  When  the  herd 
draws  itself  together  in  arms  against  the  stranger  it  is  a 
fall  for  those  rare  free  spirits  who  love  the  whole  world, 
but  it  raises  the  many  who  weakly  vegetate  in  anarchistic 
egotism,  and  lifts  them  to  that  higher  stage  of  organised 
selfishness.  Camus  woke  up  all  at  once,  with  the  feeling 
that  for  the  first  time  he  was  not  alone  in  the  world. 

Patriotism  is  perhaps  the  only  instinct  under  present  con- 
ditions which  escapes  the  withering  touch  of  every-day  life. 
All  other  instincts  and  natural  aspirations,  the  legitimate 
need  to  love  and  act  in  social  life,  are  stifled,  mutilated  and 
forced  to  pass  under  the  yoke  of  denial  and  compromise. 
When  a  man  reaches  middle  life  and  turns  to  look  back, 
he  sees  these  desires  marked  with  his  failures  and  his 
cowardice;  the  taste  is  bitter  on  his  tongue,  he  is  ashamed 
of  them  and  of  himself.  Patriotism  alone  has  remained  out- 
side, unemployed  but  not  'tarnished,  and  when  it  re-awakes 
it  is  inviolate.  The  soul  embraces  and  lavishes  on  it  the 
ardour  of  all  the  ambitions,  the  loves,  and  the  longings, 
that  life  has  disappointed.  A  half  century  of  suppressed 
fire  bursts  forth,  millions  of  little  cages  in  the  social  prison 
open  their  doors.  At  last!  Long  enchained  instincts  stretch 
their  stiffened  limbs,  cry  out  and  leap  into  the  open  air, 
as  of  right — right,  do  I  say?  it  is  now  their  duty  to  press 


34  CLERAMBAULT 

forward  all   together  like  a   falling  mass.     The  isolated 
snow-flakes  turned  avalanche. 

Camus  was  carried  away,  the  little  bureaucrat  found  him- 
self part  of  it  all  and  without  fury  or  futile  violence  he 
felt  only  a  calm  strength.  All  was  "  well "  with  him,  well 
in  mind,  well  in  body.  He  had  no  more  insomnia,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  years  his  stomach  gave  him  no  trouble — 
because  he  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  He  even  got  through 
the  winter  without  taking  cold — something  that  had  never 
been  heard  of  before.  He  ceased  to  find  fault  with  every- 
thing and  everybody,  he  no  longer  railed  at  all  that  was 
done  or  undone,  for  now  he  was  filled  with  a  sacred  pity 
for  the  entire  social  body — that  body,  now  his,  but 
stronger,  better,  and  more  beautiful.  He  felt  a  fraternal 
bond  with  all  those  who  formed  part  of  it  by  their  close 
union,  like  a  swarm  of  bees  hanging  from  a  branch,  and 
envied  the  younger  men  who  went  to  defend  it.  When 
Maxime  gaily  prepared  to  go,  his  uncle  gazed  at  him  ten- 
derly, and  when  the  train  left  carrying  away  the  young 
men,  he  turned  and  threw  his  arms  round  Clerambault,  then 
shook  hands  with  unknown  parents  who  had  come  to  see 
their  sons  off,  with  tears  of  emotion  and  joy  in  his  eyes. 
In  that  moment  Camus  was  ready  to  give  up  everything 
he  possessed.  It  was  his  honey-moon  with  Life — this  soli- 
tary starved  soul  saw  her  as  she  passed  and  seized  her  in 
his  arms.  .  .  .  Yes,  Life  passes,  the  euphoria  of  a  Camus 
cannot  last  forever,  but  he  who  has  known  it  lives  only 
in  the  memory  of  it,  and  in  the  hope  that  it  may  return. 
War  brought  this  gift,  therefore  Peace  is  an  enemy,  and 
enemies  are  all  those  who  desire  it. 


Clerambault  and  Camus  exchanged  ideas,  and  to  such 
an  extent  that  finally  Clerambault  could  not  tell  which 
were  his  own,  and  as  he  lost  footing  he  felt  more  strongly 
the  need  to  act;  for  action  was  a  kind  of  justification  to 
himself.  .  .  .  Whom  did  he  wish  to  justify?  Alas,  it  was 
Camus!  In  spite  of  his  habitual  ardour  and  convictions  he 
was  a  mere  echo — and  of  what  unhappy  voices. 

He  began  to  write  Hymns  to  Battle.  There  was  great 
competition  in  this  line  among  poets  who  did  not  fight 
themselves.  But  there  was  little  danger  that  their  produc- 
tions would  clog  men's  memories  in  future  ages,  for  nothing 
in  their  previous  career  had  prepared  these  unfortunates 
for  such  a  task.  In  vain  they  raised  their  voices  and  ex- 
hausted all  the  resources  of  French  rhetoric,  the  "  poilus  " 
only  shrugged  their  shoulders. 

However  people  in  the  rear  liked  them  much  better  than 
the  stories  written  in  the  dark  and  covered  with  mud,  that 
came  out  of  the  trenches.  The  visions  of  a  Barbusse  had 
not  yet  dawned  to  show  the  truth  to  these  talkative 
shadows.  There  was  no  difficulty  for  Clerambault,  he 
shone  in  these  eloquent  contests.  For  he  had  the  fatal 
gift  of  verbal  and  rhythmical  facility  which  separates  poets 
from  reality,  wrapping  them  as  if  in  a  spider's  web.  In 
times  of  peace  this  harmless  web  hung  on  the  bushes,  the 
wind  blowing  through  it,  and  the  good-natured  Arachne 
caught  nothing  but  light  in  her  meshes.  Nowadays,  how- 
ever, the  poets  cultivated  their  carniverous  instincts — 
fortunately  rather  out  of  date — and  hidden  at  the  bottom 
of  their  web  one  could  catch  sight  of  a  nasty  little  beast 
with  an  eye  fixed  on  the  prey.  They  sang  of  hatred  and 
holy  butdiery,  and   Clerambault  did  as   they  did,   even 

35 


36  CLERAMBAULT 

better,  for  he  had  more  voice.  And,  by  dint  of  scream- 
ing, this  worthy  man  ended  by  feeling  passions  that  he 
knew  nothing  of.  He  learned  to  "  know  "  hatred  at  last, 
know  in  the  Biblical  sense,  and  it  only  roused  in  him  that 
base  pride  that  an  undergraduate  feels  when  for  the  first 
time  he  finds  himself  coming  out  of  a  brothel. 

Now  he  was  a  man,  and  in  fact  he  needed  nothing  more, 
he  had  fallen  as  low  as  the  others. 

Camus  well  deserved  and  enjoyed  the  first  taste  of  each 
one  of  these  poems  and  they  made  him  neigh  with  en- 
thusiasm, for  he  recognised  himself  in  them.  Clerambault 
was  flattered,  thinking  he  had  touched  the  popular  string. 
The  brothers-in-law  spent  their  evenings  alone  together. 
Clerambault  read,  Camus  drank  in  his  verses ;  he  knew  them 
by  heart,  and  told  everyone  who  would  listen  to  him  that 
Hugo  had  come  to  life  again,  and  that  each  of  these  poems 
was  worth  a  victory.  His  noisy  admiration  made  it  un- 
necessary for  the  other  members  of  the  family  to  express 
their  opinion.  Under  some  excuse,  Rosine  regularly  made 
a  practice  of  leaving  the  room  when  the  reading  was  over. 
Clerambault  felt  it,  and  would  have  liked  to  ask  his  daugh- 
ter's opinion,  but  found  it  more  prudent  not  to  put  the 
question.  He  preferred  to  persuade  himself  that  Rosine's 
emotion  and  timidity  put  her  to  flight.  He  was  vexed  all 
the  same,  but  the  approval  of  the  outside  world  healed 
this  slight  woimd.  His  poems  appeared  in  the  bourgeois 
papers,  and  proved  the  most  striking  success  of  Cleram- 
bault's  career,  for  no  other  work  of  his  had  raised  such 
unanimous  admiration.  A  poet  is  always  pleased  to  have 
it  said  that  his  last  work  is  his  best,  all  the  more  when  he 
knows  that  it  is  inferior  to  the  others. 

Clerambault  knew  it  perfectly  well,  but  he  swallowed  all 
the  fawning  reviews  of  the  press  with  infantile  vanity.  In 
the  evening  he  made  Camus  read  them  aloud  in  the  family 


CLERAMBAULT  37 

circle,  beaming  with  joy  as  he  listened.  When  it  was  over 
he  nearly  shouted: 

"  Encore!  " 

In  this  concert  of  praise  one  slightly  flat  note  came  from 
Perrotin.  (Undoubtedly  he  had  been  much  deceived  in 
him,  he  was  not  a  true  friend.)  The  old  scholar  to  whom 
Clerambault  had  sent  a  copy  of  his  poems  did  not  fail  to 
congratulate  him  politely,  praising  his  great  talent,  but  he 
did  not  say  that  this  was  his  finest  work;  he  even  urged 
him,  "  after  having  offered  his  tribute  to  the  warlike  Muse, 
to  produce  now  a  work  of  pure  imagination  detached  from 
the  present,"  What  could  he  mean?  When  an  artist  sub- 
mits his  work  for  your  approval,  is  it  proper  to  say  to  him: 
"  I  should  prefer  to  read  another  one  quite  different  from 
this?  "  This  was  a  fresh  sign  to  Clerambault  of  the  sadly 
lukewarm  patriotism  that  he  had  already  noticed  in  Per- 
rotin. This  lack  of  comprehension  chilled  his  feeling  to- 
wards his  old  friend.  The  war,  he  thought,  was  the  great 
test  of  characters,  it  revised  all  values,  and  tried  out  friend- 
ships. And  he  thought  that  the  loss  of  Perrotin  was  bal- 
anced by  the  gain  of  Camus,  and  many  new  friends,  plain 
people,  no  doubt,  but  simple  and  warm-hearted. 

Sometimes  at  night  he  had  moments  of  oppression,  he 
was  uneasy,  wakeful,  discontented,  ashamed;  .  .  .  but 
of  what?    Had  he  not  done  his  duty? 


;J8044: 


The  first  letters  from  Maxime  were  a  comforting  cordial; 
the  first  drops  dissipated  every  discouragement,  and  they 
all  lived  on  them  in  long  intervals  when  no  news  came. 
In  spite  of  the  agony  of  these  silences,  when  any  second 
might  be  fatal  to  the  loved  one,  his  perfect  confidence 
(exaggerated  perhaps,  through  affection,  or  superstition) 
communicated  itself  to  them  all.  His  letters  were  running 
over  with  youth  and  exuberant  joy,  which  reached  its 
climax  in  the  days  that  followed  the  victory  of  the  Marne. 
The  whole  family  yearned  towards  him  as  one;  like  a 
plant  the  summit  of  which  bathes  in  the  light,  stretching 
up  to  it  in  a  rapture  of  mystic  adoration. 

People  who  but  yesterday  were  soft  and  torpid,  expanded 
under  the  extraordinary  light  when  fate  threw  them  into 
the  infernal  vortex  of  the  war,  the  light  of  Death,  the 
game  with  Death;  Maxime,  a  spoiled  child,  delicate,  over- 
particular, who  in  ordinary  times  took  care  of  himself  like 
a  fine  lady,  found  an  unexpected  flavour  in  the  privations 
and  trials  of  his  new  life,  and  wondering  at  himself  he 
boasted  of  it  in  his  charming,  vainglorious  letters  which 
delighted  the  hearts  of  his  parents. 

Neither  affected  to  be  cast  in  the  mould  of  one  of 
Corneille's  heroes,'and  the  thought  of  immolating  their  child 
on  the  altar  of  a  barbaric  idea  would  have  filled  them  with 
horror ;  but  the  transfiguration  of  their  petted  boy  suddenly 
become  a  hero,  touched  them  with  a  tenderness  never  before 
felt.  In  spite  of  their  anxiety,  Maxime's  enthusiasm  intoxi- 
cated them,  and  it  made  them  ungrateful  toward  their 
former  life,  that  peaceful  affectionate  existence,  with  its 
long    monotonous    days.      Maxime    was    amusingly    con- 

38 


CLERAMBAULT  39 

temptuous  of  it,  calling  it  absurd  after  one  had  seen  what 
was  going  on  "  out  there." 

"  Out  there  "  one  was  glad  to  sleep  three  hours  on  the 
hard  ground,  or  once  in  a  month  of  Sundays  on  a  wisp  of 
straw,  glad  to  turn  out  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning 
and  warm  up  by  marching  thirty  kilometres  with  a  knap- 
sack on  one's  back,  sweating  freely  for  eight  or  ten  hours 
at  a  time.  .  .  .  Glad  above  all  to  get  in  touch  with  the 
enemy,  and  rest  a  little  lying  down  under  a  bank,  while 
one  peppered  the  boches.  .  .  .  This  young  Cyrano  de- 
clared that  fighting  rested  you  after  a  march,  and  when  he 
described  an  engagement  you  would  have  said  that  he  was 
at  a  concert  or  a  "  movie." 

The  rhythm  of  the  shells,  the  noise  when  they  left  the 
gun  and  when  they  burst,  reminded  him 'of  the  passage 
with  cymbals  in  the  divine  scherzo  of  the  Ninth  Symphony. 
When  he  heard  overhead  as  from  an  airy  music-box  the 
buzzing  of  these  steel  mosquitoes,  mischievous,  imperious, 
angry,  trer^herous,  or  simply  full  of  amiable  carelessness, 
he  felt  like  a  street  boy  rushing  out  to  see  a  fire.  No  more 
fatigue;  mind  and  body  on  the  alert;  and  when  came 
the  long-awaited  order  "  Forward!  "  one  jumped  to  one's 
feet,  light  as  a  feather,  and  ran  to  the  nearest  shelter 
under  the  hail  of  bullets,  glad  to  be  in  the  open,  like  a 
hound  on  the  scent.  You  crawled  on  your  hands  and 
knees,  or  on  your  stomach,  you  ran  all  bent  doubled-up, 
or  did  Swedish  gymnastics  through  the  underbrush  .  .  . 
that  made  up  for  not  being  able  to  walk  straight ;  and  when 
it  grew  dark  you  said:  "  What,  night  already? — What  have 
we  been  doing  with  ourselves,  today?  "  .  .  .  "  In  conclu- 
sion," said  this  little  French  cockerel,  "  the  only  tiresome 
thing  in  war  is  what  you  do  in  peace-time, — you  walk  along 
the  high  road." 

This  was  the  way  these  young  men  talked  in  the  first 
month  of  the  campaign,  all  soldiers  of  the  Marne,  of  war 


40  CLERAMBAULT 

in  the  open.  If  this  had  gone  on,  we  should  have  seen 
once  more  the  race  of  barefooted  Revolutionaries,  who  set 
out  to  conquer  the  world  and  could  not  stop  themselves. 

They  were  at  last  forced  to  stop,  and  from  the  moment 
that  they  were  put  to  soak  in  the  trenches,  the  tone  changed. 
Maxime  lost  his  spirit,  his  boyish  carelessness.  From  day 
to  day  he  grew  virile,  stoical,  obstinate  and  nervous.  He 
still  vouched  for  the  final  victory,  but  ceased  after  a  while 
to  talk  of  it,  and  wrote  only  of  duty  to  be  done,  then  even 
that  stopped,  and  his  letters  became  dull,  grey,  tired-out. 

Enthusiasm  had  not  diminished  behind  the  lines,  and 
Clerambault  persisted  in  vibrating  like  an  organ  pipe,  but 
Maxime  no  longer  gave  back  the  echo  he  sought  to  evoke. 


All  at  once,  without  warning,  Maxime  came  home  for 
a  week's  leave.  He  stopped  on  the  stairs,  for  though  he 
seemed  more  robust  than  formerly,  his  legs  felt  heavy,  and 
he  was  soon  tired.  He  waited  a  moment  to  breathe,  for  he 
was  moved,  and  then  went  up.  His  mother  came  to  the 
door  at  his  ring,  screaming  at  the  sight  of  him.  Cleram- 
bault  who  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  apartment  in  the 
weariness  of  the  long  waiting,  cried  out  too  as  he  ran.  It 
was  a  tremendous  row. 

After  a  few  minutes  there  was  a  truce  to  embraces  and 
inarticulate  exclamations.  Pushed  into  a  chair  by  the  win- 
dow with  his  face  to  the  light,  Maxime  gave  himself  up  to 
their  delighted  eyes.  They  were  in  ecstasies  over  his  com- 
plexion, his  cheeks  more  filled  out,  his  healthy  look.  His 
father  threw  his  arms  around  him  calling  him  "  My  Hero  " 
— but  Maxime  sat  with  his  fingers  twitching  nervously,  and 
could  not  get  out  a  word. 

At  table  they  feasted  their  eyes  on  him,  hung  on  every 
word,  but  he  said  very  little.  The  excitement  of  his  family 
had  checked  his  first  impetus,  but  luckily  they  did  not 
notice  it,  and  attributed  his  silence  to  fatigue  or  to  hunger. 
Clerambault  talked  enough  for  two;  telling  Maxime  about 
life  in  the  trenches.  Good  mother  Pauline  was  transformed 
into  a  Cornelia,  out  of  Plutarch,  and  Maxime  looked  at 
them,  ate,  looked  again.  ...  A  gulf  had  opened  between 
them. 

When  after  dinner  they  all  went  back  to  his  father's 
study,  and  they  saw  him  comfortably  established  with  a 
cigar,  he  had  to  try  and  satisfy  these  poor  waiting  people. 
So  he  quietly  began  to  tell  them  how  his  time  was  passed, 
with   a   certain   proud   reserve  and   leaving   out    tragical 

41 


42  CLERAMBAULT 

pictures.  They  listened  in  trembling  expectation,  and  when 
he  had  finished  they  were  still  expectant.  Then  on  their 
side  came  a  shower  of  questions,  to  which  Maxime's  replies 
were  short — soon  he  fell  silent.  Clerambault  to  wake  up 
the  "  young  rascal  "  tried  several  jovial  thrusts. 

"  Come  now,  tell  us  about  some  of  your  engagements. 
...  It  must  be  fine  to  see  such  joy,  such  sacred  fire — 
Lord,  but  I  would  like  to  see  all  that,  I  would  like  to  be  in 
your  place." 

"  You  can  see  all  these  fine  things  better  from  where  you 
are,"  said  Maxime.  Since  he  had  been  in  the  trenches  he 
had  not  seen  a  fight,  hardly  set  eyes  on  a  German,  his  view 
was  bounded  by  mud  and  water — but  they  would  not  be- 
lieve him,  they  thought  he  was  talking  "  contrariwise  "  as 
he  did  when  he  was  a  child. 

"  You  old  humbug,"  said  his  father,  laughing  gaily, 
"  What  does  happen  then  all  day  long  in  your  trenches?  " 

"  We  take  care  of  ourselves ;  kill  time,  the  worst  enemy 
of  all." 

Clerambault  slapped  him  amicably  on  the  back. 

"  Time  is  not  the  only  one  you  kill?  " — Maxime  drew 
away,  saw  the  kind,  curious  glances  of  his  father  and 
mother,  and  answered: 

"  Please  talk  of  something  else,"  and  added  after  a  pause: 

"  Will  you  do  something  for  me? — don't  ask  me  any 
more  questions  today." 

They  agreed  rather  surprised,  but  they  supposed  that  he 
needed  care,  being  so  tired,  and  they  overwhelmed  him  with 
attentions.  Clerambault,  however,  could  not  refrain  from 
breaking  out  every  minute  or  two  in  apostrophes,  demand- 
ing his  son's  approbation.  His  speeches  resounded  with  the 
word  "  Liberty."  Maxime  smiled  faintly  and  looked  at 
Rosine,  for  the  attitude  of  the  young  girl  was  singular. 
When  her  brother  came  in  she  threw  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  but  since  she  had  kept  in  the  background,  one  might 


CLERAMBAULT  43 

have  said  aloof.  She  had  taken  no  part  in  her  parents' 
questions,  and  far  from  inviting  confidence  from  Maxime 
she  seemed  to  shrink  from  it.  He  felt  the  same  awkward- 
ness^ and  avoided  being  alone  with  her.  But  still  they  had 
never  felt  closer  to  each  other  in  spirit,  they  could  not  have 
borne  to  say  why. 

Maxime  had  to  be  shown  to  all  the  neighbours,  and  by 
way  of  amusement  he  was  taken  out  for  a  walk.  In  spite 
of  her  mourning,  Paris  again  wore  a  smiling  face;  poverty 
and  pain  were  hidden  at  home,  or  at  the  bottom  of  her 
proud  heart;  but  the  perpetual  Fair  in  the  streets  and  in 
the  press  showed  its  mask  of  contentment. 

The  people  in  the  cafes  and  the  tea-rooms  were  ready 
to  hold  out  for  twenty  years,  if  necessary.  Maxime  and 
his  family  sat  in  a  tea-shop  at  a  little  table,  gay  chatter 
and  the  perfume  of  women  all  about  him.  Through  it  he 
saw  the  trench  where  he  had  been  bombarded  for  twenty- 
six  days  on  end,  unable  to  stir  from  the  sticky  ditch  full 
of  corpses  which  rose  around  him  like  a  wall.  .  .  .  Hi§ 
mother  laid  her  hand  on  his,  he  woke,  saw  the  affectionate 
questioning  glances  of  his  people,  and  self-reproached  for 
making  them  uneasy,  he  smiled  and  began  to  look  about 
and  talk  gaily.  His  boyish  high  spirits  came  back,  and 
the  shadow  cleared  away  from  Clerambault's  face;  he 
glanced  simply  and  gratefully  at  Maxime. 

His  alarms  were  not  at  an  end,  however.  As  they  left  the 
tea-shop — he  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  son — they  met  a 
military  funeral.  There  were  wreaths  and  uniforms,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Institute  with  hfs  sword  between  his  legs,  and 
brass  instruments  braying  out  an  heroic  lamentation. 

The  crowd  drew  respectfully  to  either  side,  Clerambault 
stopped  and  pointedly  took  off  his  hat,  while  with  his  left 
hand  he  pressed  Maxime's  arm  yet  closer  to  his  side.  Feel- 
ing him  tremble,  he  turned  towards  his  son,  and  thought 
he  had  a  strange  look.    Supposing  that  he  was  overcome 


44  CLERAMBAULT 

he  tried  to  draw  him  away,  but  Maxime  did  not  stir,  he 
was  so  much  taken  aback. 

"  A  dead  man,"  he  thought.  All  that  for  one  dead  man! 
.  .  .  and  out  there  we  walk  over  them.  Five  hundred  a 
day  on  the  roll,  that's  the  normal  ration." 

Hearing  a  sneering  little  laugh,  Clerambault  was  fright- 
ened and  pulled  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Come  away!  "  he  said,  and  they  moved  on. 

"  If  they  could  see,"  said  Maxime  to  himself,  "  if  they 
could  only  see!  ,  .  .  their  whole  society  would  go  to 
pieces,  .  .  .  but  they  will  always  be  blind,  they  do  not 
want  to  see  ..." 

His  eyes,  cruelly  sharpened  now,  saw  the  adversary  all 
around  him, — in  the  carelessness  of  the  world,  its  stupidity, 
its  egotism,  its  luxury,  in  the  "  I  don't  give  a  damn!  ",  the 
indecent  profits  of  the  war,  the  enjoyment  of  it,  the  false- 
ness down  to  the  roots.  .  .  .  All  these  sheltered  people, 
shirkers,  police,  with  their  insolent  autos  that  looked  like 
cannon,  their  women  booted  to  the  knee,  with  scarlet 
mouths,  and  cruel  little  candy  faces  .  .  .  they  are  all 
satisfied  ...  all  is  for  the  best!  .  .  .  "  It  will  go  on 
forever  as  it  is!  "  Half  the  world  devouring  the  other 
half.  ... 

They  went  home.  In  the  evening  after  dinner  Cleram- 
bault was  dying  to  read  his  latest  poem  to  Maxime.  The 
idea  of  it  was  touching,  if  a  little  absurd. — In  his  love 
for  his  son,  he  sought  to  be  in  spirit,  at  least,  the  comrade 
of  his  glory  and  his  sufferings,  and  he  had  described  them, 
— at  a  distance— in  "  Dawn  in  the  Trenches."  Twice  he 
got  up  to  look  for  the  MS.,  but  with  the  sheets  in  his 
hand  a  sort  of  shyness  paralysed  him,  and  he  went  back 
without  them. 

As  the  days  went  by  they  felt  themselves  closely  knit 
together  by  ties  of  the  flesh,  but  their  souls  were  out  of 
touch.    Neither  would  admit  it  though  each  knew  it  well. 


CLERAMBAULT  45 

A  sadness  was  between  them,  but  they  refused  to  see  the 
real  cause,  and  preferred  to  ascribe  it  to  the  approaching 
separation.  From  time  to  time  the  father  or  the  mother 
made  a  fresh  attempt  to  re-open  the  sources  of  intimacy, 
but  each  time  came  the  same  disappointment.  Maxime 
saw  that  he  had  no  longer  any  way  of  communicating  with 
them,  with  anyone  in  the  rear.  They  lived  in  different 
worlds  .  .  .  could  they  ever  understand  each  other  again? 
.  .  .  Yet  still  he  understood  them,  for  once  he  had  him- 
self undergone  the  influence  which  weighed  on  them,  and 
had  only  come  to  his  senses  "  out  there,"  in  contact  with 
real  suffering  and  death.  But  just  because  he  had  been 
touched  himself,  he  knew  the  impossibility  of  curing  the 
others  by  process  of  reasoning;  so  he  let  them  talk,  silent 
himself,  smiling  vaguely,  assenting  to  he  knew  not  what. 
The  preoccupations  here  behind  the  lines  filled  him  with 
disgust,  weariness,  and  a  profotmd  pity  for  these  people  in 
the  rear — a  strange  race  to  him,  with  the  outcries  of  the 
papers,  questions  from  such  persons — old  buffoons,  worn- 
out,  damaged  politicians! — ^patriotic  braggings,  written-up 
strategies,  anxieties  about  black  bread,  sugar  cards,  or  the 
days  when  the  confectioners  were  shut.  He  took  refuge  in 
a  mysterious  silence,  smiling  and  sad;  and  only  went  out 
occasionally,  when  he  thought  of  the  short  time  he  had  to 
be  with  these  dear  people  who  loved  him.  Then  he  would 
begin  to  talk  with  the  utmost  animation  about  anything. 
The  important  thing  was  to  make  a  noise,  since  one  could 
no  longer  speak  one's  real  thoughts,  and  naturally  he  fell 
back  on  everyday  matters.  Questions  of  general  interest 
and  political  news  came  first,  but  they  might  as  well  have 
read  the  morning  paper  aloud.  "  The  Crushing  of  the 
Huns,"  "  The  Triumph  of  the  Right,"  filled  Clerambault's 
thoughts  and  speeches,  while  he  served  as  acolyte,  and 
filled  in  the  pauses  with  cum  spiritu  tuo.  All  the  time 
each  was  waiting  for  the  other  to  begin  to  talk. 


it6  CLERAMBAULT 

They  waited  so  long  that  the  end  of  his  leave  came.  A 
little  while  before  he  went,  Maxime  came  into  his  father's 
study  resolved  to  explain  himself: 

"  Papa,  are  you  quite  sure?  "... 

The  trouble  painted  on  Clerambault's  face  checked  the 
words  on  his  lips.  He  had  pity  on  him  and  asked  if  his 
father  was  quite  sure  at  what  time  the  train  was  to  leave 
and  Clerambault  heard  the  end  of  the  question  with  an 
only  too  visible  relief.  When  he  had  supplied  all  the  in- 
formation— that  Maxime  did  not  listen  to — ^he  mounted 
his  oratorical  hobby-horse  again  and  started  out  with  one 
of  his  habitual  idealistic  declamations.  Maxime  held  his 
peace,  discouraged,  and  for  the  last  hour  they  spoke  only 
of  trifles.  All  but  the  mother  felt  that  the  essential  had 
not  been  uttered;  only  light  and  confident  words,  an  ap- 
parent excitement,  but  a  deep  sigh  in  the  heart — "  My 
God!  my  God!  why  hast  thou  forsaken  us?  " 

When  Maxime  left  he  was  really  glad  to  go  back  to  the 
front.  The  gulf  that  he  had  found  between  the  front  and 
rear  seemed  to  him  deeper  than  the  trenches,  and  guns  did 
not  appear  to  him  as  murderous  as  ideas. 

As  the  railway  carriage  drew  out  of  the  station  he  leaned 
from  the  window  and  followed  with  his  eyes  the  tearful 
faces  of  his  family  fading  in  the  distance,  and  he  thought: 

"  Poor  dears,  you  are  their  victims  and  we  are  yours." 


The  day  after  his  return  to  the  front  the  great  spring 
offensive  was  let  loose,  which  the  talkative  newspapers  had 
announced  to  the  enemy  several  weeks  beforehand.  The 
hopes  of  the  nation  had  been  fed  on  it  during  the  gloomy 
winter  of  waiting  and  death,  and  it  rose  now,  filled  with 
an  impatient  joy,  sure  of  victory  and  crying  out  to  it — 
"At  last!  " 

The  first  news  seemed  good;  of  course  it  spoke  only  of 
the  enemy's  losses,  and  all  faces  brightened.  Parents  whose 
sons,  women  whose  husbands  were  "  out  there "  were 
proud  that  their  flesh  and  their  love  had  a  part  in  this 
sanguinary  feast;  and  in  their  exaltation  they  hardly 
stopped  to  think  that  their  dear  one  might  be  among  the 
victims.  The  excitement  ran  so  high  that  Clerambault,  an 
affectionate,  tender  father,  generally  most  anxious  for  those 
he  loved,  was  actually  afraid  that  his  son  had  not  got  back 
in  time  for  "  The  Dance."  He  wanted  him  to  be  there, 
his  eager  wishes  pushed,  thrust  him  into  the  abyss,  making 
this  sacrifice,  disposing  of  his  son  and  of  his  life,  without 
asking  if  he  himself  agreed.  He  and  his  had  ceased  to 
belong  to  themselves.  He  could  not  conceive  that  it  should 
be  otherwise  with  any  of  them.  The  obscure  will  of  the 
ant-heap  had  eaten  him  up. 

Sometimes  taken  unawares,  the  remains  of  his  self- 
analytical  habit  of  mind  would  appear;  like  a  sensitive  nerve 
that  is  touched, — a  dull  blow,  a  quiver  of  pain,  it  is  gone, 
and  we  forget  it. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  the  exhausted  offensive  was 
still  pawing  the  ground  of  the  same  blood-soaked  kilometres, 
and  the  newspapers  began  to  distract  public  attention,  put- 
ting it  on  a  fresh  scent.    Nothing  had  been  heard  from 

47 


48  CLERAMBAULT 

Maxime  since  he  left.  They  sought  for  the  ordinary  reasons 
for  delay  which  the  mind  furnishes  readily  but  the  heart 
cannot  accept.  Another  week  went  by.  Among  themselves 
each  of  the  three  pretended  to  be  confident,  but  at  night, 
each  one  alone  in  his  room,  the  heart  cried  out  in  agony, 
and  the  whole  day  long  the  ear  was  strained  to  catch  every 
step  on  the  stair,  the  nerves  stretched  to  the  breaking 
point  at  a  ring  of  the  bell,  or  the  touch  of  a  hand  passing 
the  door. 

The  first  official  news  of  the  losses  began  to  come  in; 
several  families  among  Clerambault's  friends  already  knew 
which  of  their  men  were  dead  and  which  wounded.  Those 
who  had  lost  all,  envied  those  who  could  have  thdr  loved 
ones  back,  though  bleeding,  perhaps  mutilated.  Many  sank 
into  the  night  of  their  grief;  for  them  the  war  and  life  were 
equally  over.  But  with  others  the  exaltation  of  the  early 
days  persisted  strangely;  Clerambault  saw  one  mother 
wrought  up  by  her  patriotism  and  her  grief  to  the  point  that 
she  almost  rejoiced  at  the  death  of  her  son.  "  I  have  given 
my  all,  my  all!  "  she  would  say,  with  a  violent,  concen- 
trated joy  such  as  is  felt  in  the  last  second  before  extinc- 
tion by  a  woman  who  drowns  herself  with  the  man  she  loves. 
Clerambault  however  was  weaker,  and  waking  from  his 
dizziness  he  thought: 

"  I  too  have  given  all,  even  what  was  not  my  own." 
He  inquired  of  the  military  authorities,  but  they  knew 
nothing  as  yet.  Ten  days  later  came  the  news  that  Sergeant 
Clerambault  was  reported  as  missing  from  the  night  of  the 
2  7-28th  of  the  preceding  month.  Clerambault  could  get  no 
further  details  at  the  Paris  bureaus;  therefore  he  set  out 
for  Geneva,  went  to  the  Red  Cross,  the  Agency  for  Pris- 
oners,— could  find  nothing;  followed  up  every  clue,  got  per- 
mission to  question  comrades  of  his  son  in  hospitals  or 
depots  behind  the  lines.  They  all  gave  contradictory  in- 
formation; one  said  he  was  a  prisoner,  another  had  seen 


CLERAMBAULT  49 

him  dead,  and  both  the  next  day  admitted  that  they  had 
been  mistaken.  .  .  .Oh!  tortures!  God  of  vengeance! 
...  He  came  back  after  a  fortnight  from  this  Way  of 
the  Cross,  aged,  broken-down,  exhausted. 

He  found  his  wife  in  a  paroxysm  of  frantic  grief,  which 
in  this  good-natured  creature  had  turned  to  a  furious  hatred 
of  the  enemy;  she  cried  out  for  revenge,  and  for  the  first 
time  Clerambault  did  not  answer.  He  had  not  strength 
enough  to  hate,  he  could  only  suffer. 

He  shut  himself  into  his  room.  lairing  that  frightful 
ten  days'  pilgrimage  he  had  scarcely  looked  his  thoughts  in 
the  face,  hypnotised  as  he  was,  day  and  night  by  one  idea, 
Uke  a  dog  on  a  scent, — faster!  go  faster!  The  slowness  of 
carriages  and  trains  consumed  him,  and  once,  when  he  had 
taken  a  room  for  the  night,  he  rushed  away  the  same  eve- 
ning, without  stopping  to  rest.  This  fever  of  haste  and 
expectation  devoured  everything,  and  made  consecutive 
thought  impossible, — which  was  his  salvation.  Now  that 
the  chase  was  ended,  his  mind,  exhausted  and  dying,  recov- 
ered its  powers. 

Clerambault  knew  certainly  that  Maxime  was  dead.  He 
had  not  told  his  wife,  but  had  concealed  some  information 
that  destroyed  all  hope.  She  was  one  of  those  people  who 
absolutely  must  keep  a  gleam  of  falsehood  to  lure  them  on, 
against  all  reason,  until  the  first  flood  of  grief  is  over. 
Perhaps  Clerambault  himself  had  been  one  of  them,  but  he 
was  not  so  now;  for  he  saw  where  this  lure  had  led  him. 
He  did  not  judge,  he  was  not  yet  able  to  form  a  judgment, 
lying  in  the  darkness.  Too  weak  to  rise,  and  feel  about 
him,  he  was  like  someone  who  moves  his  crushed  limbs  after 
a  fall,  and  with  each  stab  of  pain  recovers  consciousness 
of  life,  and  tries  to  understand  what  has  happened  to  him. 
The  stupid  gulf  of  this  death  overcame  him.  That  this 
beautiful  child,  who  had  given  them  so  much  joy,  cost  them 
so  much  care,  all  this  marvel  of  hope  in  flower,  the  price- 


50  CLERAMBAULT 

less  little  world  that  is  a  young  man,  a  tree  of  Jesse,  future 
years  ...  all  vanished  in  an  hour! — and  why? — why? — 

He  was  forced  to  try  to  persuade  himself  at  least  that 
it  was  for  something  great  and  necessary.  Clerambault 
clung  despairingly  to  this  buoy  during  the  succeeding  nights, 
feeling  that  if  his  hold  gave  way  he  should  go  tmder.  More 
than  ever  he  insisted  on  the  holiness  of  the  cause ;  he  would 
not  even  discuss  it;  but  little  by  little  his  fingers  slipped, 
he  settled  lower  with  every  movement,  for  each  new  state- 
ment of  the  justice  of  his  cause  roused  a  voice  in  his  con- 
science which  said: 

"  Even  if  you  were  twenty  thousand  times  more  right  in 
this  struggle,  is  your  justification  worth  the  disasters  it 
costs?  Does  justice  demand  that  millions  of  innocents 
should  fall,  a  ransom  for  the  sins  and  the  errors  of  others? 
Is  crime  to  be  washed  out  by  crime?  or  murder  by  murder? 
And  must  your  sons  be  not  only  victims  but  accomplices, 
assassinated  and  assassins?   ..." 

He  looked  back  at  the  last  visit  of  his  son,  and  reflected 
on  their  last  talks  together.  How  many  things  were  clear 
to  him  now,  which  he  had  not  understood  at  the  time! 
Maxime's  silence,  the  reproach  in  his  eyes.  The  worst  of 
all  was  when  he  recognised  that  he  had  understood,  at 
the  time,  when  his  son  was  there,  but  that  he  would  not 
admit  it. 

This  discovery,  which  had  hung  over  him  like  a  dark 
cloud  for  weeks, — this  realisation  of  inward  falsehood, 
— crushed  him  to  the  earth. 


Until  the  actual  crisis  was  upon  them,  Rosine  Cleram- 
bault  seemed  thrown  into  the  shade.  Her  inward  life  was 
unknown  to  the  others,  and  almost  to  herself;  even  her 
father  had  scarcely  a  glimpse  of  it.  She  had  lived  under 
the  wing  of  the  warm,  selfish,  stifling  family  life,  and  had 
few  friends  or  companions  of  her  own  age,  for  her  parents 
stood  between  her  and  the  world  outside,  and  she  had 
grown  up  in  their  shadow. 

As  she  grew  older  if  she  had  wished  to  escape  she  would 
not  have  dared,  would  not  have  known  how ;  for  she  was  shy 
outside  the  family  circle,  and  could  hardly  move  or  talk; 
people  thought  her  insignificant.  This  she  knew;  it  wounded 
her  self-respect,  and  therefore  she  went  out  as  little  as  pos- 
sible, preferring  to  stay  at  home,  where  she  was  simple, 
natural  and  taciturn.  This  silence  did  not  arise  from  slow- 
ness of  thought,  but  from  the  chatter  of  the  others.  As 
her  father,  mother,  and  brother  were  all  exuberant  talkers, 
this  little  person  by  a  sort  of  reaction,  withdrew  into  her- 
self, where  she  could  talk  freely. 

She  was  fair,  tall,  and  boyishly  slender,  with  pretty  hair, 
the  locks  always  straying  over  her  cheeks.  Her  mouth  was 
rather  large  and  serious,  the  lower  lip  full  at  the  corners, 
her  eyes  large,  calm  and  vague,  with  fine  well-marked  eye- 
brows. She  had  a  graceful  chin,  a  pretty  throat,  an  unde- 
veloped figure,  no  hips;  her  hands  were  large  and  a  little 
red,  with  prominent  veins.  Anything  would  make  her  blush, 
and  her  girlish  charm  was  all  in  the  forehead  and  the  chin. 
Her  eyes  were  always  asking  and  dreaming,  but  said  little. 

Her  father's  preference  was  for  her,  just  as  her  mother 
was  drawn  towards  the  son  by  natural  affinity.  Without 
thinking  much  about  it,  Clerambault  had  always  monopo- 

Si 


52  CLERAMBAULT 

lised  his  daughter,  surrounding  her  from  childhood  with  his 
absorbing  affection.  She  had  been  partly  educated  by  him, 
and  with  the  almost  offensive  simplicity  of  the  artist  mind, 
he  had  taken  her  for  the  confidante  of  his  inner  life.  This 
was  brought  about  by  his  overflowing  self-consciousness,  and 
the  little  response  that  he  found  in  his  wife,  a  good  creature, 
who,  as  the  saying  is,  sat  at  his  feet,  in  fact  stayed  there 
permanently,  answering  yes  to  all  that  he  said,  admiring 
him  blindly,  without  understanding  him,  or  feeling  the  lack; 
the  essential  to  her  was  not  her  husband's  thought  but  him- 
self, his  welfare,  his  comfort,  his  food,  his  clothing,  his 
health.  Honest  Clerambault  in  the  gratitude  of  his  heart 
did  not  criticise  his  wife,  any  more  than  Rosine  criticised 
her  mother,  but  both  of  them  knew  how  it  was,  instinctively, 
and  were  drawn  closer  by  a  secret  tie.  Clerambault  was 
not  aware  that  in  his  daughter  he  had  found  the  real  wife 
of  his  heart  and  mind.  Nor  did  he  begin  to  suspect  it,  till 
in  these  last  days  the  war  had  seemed  to  break  the  tacit 
accord  between  them.  Rosine's  approval  hitherto  had 
bound  her  to  him,  and  now  all  at  once  it  failed  him.  She 
knew  many  things  before  he  did,  but  shrank  from  the  depths 
of  the  mystery;  the  mind  need  not  give  warning  to  the 
heart,  it  knows. 

Strange,  splendid  mystery  of  love  between  souls,  inde- 
pendent of  social  and  even  of  natural  laws.  Few  there  be 
that  know  it,  and  fewer  still  that  dare  to  reveal  it;  they  are 
afraid  of  the  coarse  world  and  its  summary  judgments  and 
can  get  no  farther  than  the  plain  meaning  of  traditional 
language.  In  this  conventional  tongue,  which  is  voluntarily 
inexact  for  the  sake  of  social  simplification,  words  are  care- 
ful not  to  unveil,  by  expressing  them,  the  many  shades  of 
reality  in  its  multiple  forms.  They  imprison  it,  codify  it, 
drill  it;  they  press  it  into  the  service  of  the  mind  already 
domesticated;  of  that  reasoning  power  which  does  not 
spring  from  the  depth  of  the  spirit,  but  from  shallow, 


CLERAMBAULT  53 

walled-in  pools — like  the  basins  at  Versailles — within  the 
limits  of  constituted  society. 

In  this  somewhat  legal  phraseology  love  is  bound  to  sex, 
age,  and  social  classes;  it  is  either  natural  or  unnatural, 
legitimate  or  the  reverse.  But  this  is  a  mere  trickle  of 
water  from  the  deep  springs  of  love,  which  is  as  the  law 
of  gravitation  that  keeps  the  stars  in  then:  courses,  and 
cares  nothing  for  the  ways  that  we  trace  for  it.  This  in- 
finite love  fulfils  itself  between  souls  far  removed  by  time 
and  space ;  across  the  centuries  it  imites  the  thoughts  of  the 
living  and  the  dead;  weaves  close  and  chaste  ties  between 
old  and  young  hearts ;  through  it,  friend  is  nearer  to  friend, 
the  child  is  closer  in  spirit  to  the  old  man  than  are  hus- 
band or  wife  in  the  whole  course  of  their  lives.  Between 
fathers  and  children  these  ties  often  exist  unconsciously, 
and  "  the  world  "  as  our  forefathers  used  to  say,  counts  so 
little  in  comparison  with  love  eternal,  that  the  positions 
are  sometimes  reversed,  and  the  younger  may  not  always  be 
the  most  childlike.  How  many  sons  are  there  who  feel  a 
devout  paternal  affection  for  an  old  mother?  And  do  we 
not  often  see  ourselves  small  and  humble  under  the  eyes 
of  a  child?  The  look  with  which  the  Bambino  of  Botticelli 
contemplates  the  innocent  Virgin  is  heavy  with  a  sad  un- 
conscious experience,  and  as  old  as  the  world. 

The  affection  of  Clerambault  and  Rosine  was  of  this  sort; 
fine,  religious,  above  the  reach  of  reason.  That  is  why,  in 
the  depths  of  the  troubled  sea,  below  the  pains  and  the 
conflicts  of  conscience  caused  by  the  war,  a  secret  drama 
went  on,  without  signs,  almost  without  words,  between  these 
hearts  united  by  a  sacred  love.  This  una  vowed  sentiment 
explained  the  sensitiveness  of  their  mutual  reactions.  .\t 
first  Rosine  drew  away  in  silence,  disappointed  in  her  affec- 
tion, her  secret  worship  tarnished,  by  the  effect  of  the  war 
on  her  father;  she  stood  apart  from  him,  like  a  little  antique 
statue,  chastely  draped.    At  once  Gerambaulf  became  un- 


54  CLERAMBAULT 

easy;  his  sensibility  sharpened  by  tenderness,  felt  instantly 
this  Noli  me  tangere,  and  from  this  arose  an  unexpressed 
estrangement  between  the  father  and  daughter.  Words  are 
so  coarse,  one  would  not  dare  to  speak  even  in  the  purest 
sense  of  disappointed  love,  but  this  inner  discord,  of  which 
neither  ever  spoke  a  word,  was  pain  to  both  of  them;  made 
the  young  girl  unhappy,  and  irritated  Clerambault.  He 
knew  the  cause  well  enough,  but  his  pride  refused  to  admit 
it;  though  little  by  little  he  was  not  far  from  confessing 
that  Rosine  was  right.  He  was  ready  to  humiliate  himself, 
but  his  tongue  was  tied  by  false  shame;  and  so  the  dif- 
ference between  their  minds  grew  wider,  while  in  their 
hearts  each  longed  to  yield. 

In  the  confusion  that  followed  Maxime's  death,  this  in- 
ward prayer  pressed  more  on  the  one  less  able  to  resist. 
Clerambault  was  prostrated  by  his  grief,  his  wife  aimlessly 
busy,  and  Rosine  was  out  all  day  at  her  war  work.  They 
only  came  together  at  meals.  But  it  happened  that  one  eve- 
ning after  dinner  Clerambault  heard  her  mother  violently 
scolding  Rosine,  who  had  spoken  of  wounded  enemies  whom 
she  wanted  to  take  care  of.  Madame  Clerambault  was  as 
indignant  as  if  her  daughter  had  committed  a  crime,  and 
appealed  to  her  husband.  His  weary,  vague,  sad  eyes  had 
begun  to  see;  he  looked  at  Rosine  who  was  silent,  her  head 
bent,  waiting  for  his  reply, 

"  You  are  right,  my  little  girl,"  he  said. 

Rosine  started  and  flushed,  for  she  had  not  expected  this ; 
she  raised  her  grateful  eyes  to  his,  and  their  look  seemed 
to  say:  "  You  have  come  back  to  me  at  last." 

After  the  brief  repast  they  usually  separated;  each  to  eat 
out  his  heart  in  solitude.  Clerambault  sat  before  his 
writing-table  and  wept,  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands. 
Rosine's  look  had  pierced  through  to  his  suffering  heart; 
his  soul  lost,  stifled  for  so  long,  had  come  to  be  as  it  was 
before  the  war.    Oh,  the  look  in  her  eyes!   .   .   . 


CLERAMBAULT  55 

He  listened,  wiping  away  his  tears;  his  wife  had  locked 
herself  into  Maxime's  room  as  she  did  every  evening,  and 
was  folding  and  unfolding  his  clothes,  arranging  the  things 
left  behind.  .  .  .  He  went  into  the  room  where  Rosine  sat 
alone  by  the  window,  sewing.  She  was  absorbed  in  thought, 
and  did  not  hear  him  coming  till  he  stood  before  her;  till 
he  laid  his  grey  head  on  her  shoulder  and  murmured:  "  My 
little  girl." 

Then  her  heart  melted  also.  She  took  the  dear  old  head 
between  her  hands,  with  its  rough  hair,  and  answered: 

"  My  dear  father." 

Neither  needed  to  ask  or  to  explain  why  he  was  there. 
After  a  long  silence,  when  he  was  calmer,  he  looked  at  her 
and  said: 

"  It  seems  as  if  I  had  waked  up  from  a  frightful  dream." 
.    .    .   But  she  merely  stroked  his  hair,  without  speaking. 

"  You  were  watching  over  me,  were  you  not?  ...  I 
saw  it.  .    .    .  Were  you  unhappy?  "... 

She  just  bowed  her  head  not  daring  to  look  at  him.  He 
stooped  to  kiss  her  hands,  and  raising  his  head  he  whis- 
pered: 

"  My  good  angel.    You  have  saved  me!  " 


When  he  had  gone  back  to  his  room  she  stayed  there 
without  moving,  filled  with  emotion,  which  kept  her  for 
long,  still,  with  drooping  head,  her  hands  clasped  on  her 
knees.  The  waves  of  feeling  that  flowed  through  her 
almost  took  away  her  breath.  Her  heart  was  bursting  with 
love,  happiness,  and  shame.  The  humility  of  her  father 
overcame  her.  .  .  .  And  all  at  once  a  passionate  impulse 
of  tender,  filial  piety  broke  the  bonds  which  paralysed  her 
soul  and  body,  as  she  stretched  out  her  arms  towards  the 
absent,  and  threw  herself  at  the  foot  of  her  bed,  thanking 
God,  beseeching  Him  to  give  all  the  suffering  to  her,  and 
happiness  to  the  one  she  loved. 

The  God  to  whom  she  prayed  did  not  give  ear ;  for  it  was 
on  the  head  of  this  young  girl  that  he  poured  the  sweet 
sleep  of  f orgetf ulness ;  but  Clerambault  had  to  climb  his 
Calvary  to  the  end. 

Alone  in  his  room,  the  lamp  put  out,  in  darkness,  Cler- 
ambault looked  within  himself.  He  was  determined  to 
pierce  to  the  bottom  of  his  timid,  lying  soul  which  tried  to 
hide  itself.  On  his  head  he  could  still  feel  the  coolness  of 
his  daughter's  hand,  which  had  effaced  all  his  hesitation. 

He  would  face  this  monster  Truth,  though  he  were  torn 
by  its  claws  which  never  relax,  once  they  have  taken  hold. 

With  a  firm  hand,  in  spite  of  his  anguish,  he  began  to 
tear  off  in  bleeding  fragments  the  covering  of  mortal  preju- 
dices, passions,  and  ideas  foreign  to  his  real  nature,  which 
clung  to  him. 

First  came  the  thick  fleece  of  the  thousand-headed  beast, 
the  collective  soul  of  the  herd.  He  had  hidden  under  it 
from  fear  and  weariness.  It  is  hot  and  stifling,  a  dirtj 
feather-bed;   but  once  wrapped  in  it,  one  cannot  move 

S6 


CLERAMBAULT  57 

to  throw  it  off,  or  even  wish  to  do  so;  there  is  no  need  to 
will,  or  to  think;  one  is  sheltered  from  cold,  from  responsi- 
bilities. Laziness,  cowardice!  .  .  .  Come,  away  with  it!  .  .  . 
Let  the  chilly  wind  blow  through  the  rents.  You  shrink  at 
first,  but  already  this  breath  has  shaken  the  torpor;  the 
enfeebled  energy  begins  to  stagger  to  its  feet.  What  will  it 
find  outside?    No  matter  what,  we  must  see.  .   .    . 

Sick  with  disgust,  he  saw  first  what  he  was  loath  to 
believe;  how  this  greasy  fleece  had  stuck  to  his  flesh.  He 
could  sniff  the  musty  odour  of  the  primitive  beast,  the 
savage  instincts  of  war,  of  murder,  the  lust  for  blood  like 
living  meat  torn  by  his  jaws.  The  elemental  force  which 
asks  death  for  life.  Far  down  in  the  depths  of  human 
nature  is  this  slaughter-house  in  the  ditch,  never  filled  up 
but  covered  with  the  veil  of  a  false  civilisation,  over  which 
hangs  a  faint  whiff  from  the  butcher's  shop.  .  .  .  This 
filthy  odour  finally  sobered  Clerambault;  with  horror  he 
tore  off  the  skin  of  the  beast  whose  prey  he  had  been. 

Ah,  how  thick  it  was, — warm,  silky,  and  beautiful,  and 
at  the  same  time  stinking  and  bloody,  made  of  the  lowest 
instincts,  and  the  highest  illusions.  To  love,  give  ourselves 
to  all,  be  a  sacrifice  for  all,  be  but  one  body  and  one  soul, 
our  Country  the  sole  life!  .  .  .  What  then  is  this  Country, 
this  living  thing  to  which  a  man  sacrifices  his  life,  the  life 
of  all  but  his  conscience  and  the  consciences  of  others? 
What  is  this  blind  love,  of  which  the  other  side  of  the 
shield  is  an  equally  blinded  hate? 

.  .  .  "  It  was  a  great  error  to  take  the  name  of  reason 
from  that  of  love,"  says  Pascal,  "  and  we  have  no  good 
cause  to  think  them  opposed,  for  love  and  reason  are  in 
truth  the  same.  Love  is  a  precipitation  of  thought  to  one 
side  without  considering  everything;  but  it  is  always 
reason."  .   .   , 

Well,  let  us  consider  everything.  Is  not  this  love  'n  a 
great  measure  the  fear  of  examining  all  things,  as  a  child 


5$  CLERAMBAULT 

hides  his  head  under  the  sheet,  so  as  not  to  see  the  shadow 
on  the  wall? 

Country?  A  Hindoo  temple:  men,  monsters,  and  gods. 
What  is  she?  The  earth  we  tread  on?  The  whole  earth  is 
the  mother  of  us  all.  The  family?  It  is  here  and  there,  with 
the  enemy  as  with  ourselves,  and  it  asks  nothing  but  peace. 
The  poor,  the  workers,  the  people,  they  are  on  both  sides, 
equally  miserable,  equally  exploited.  Thinkers  have  a  com- 
mon field,  and  as  for  their  rivalries  and  their  vanities,  they 
are  as  ridiculous  in  the  East  as  in  the  West ;  the  world  does 
not  go  to  war  over  the  quarrels  of  a  Vadius  or  a  Trissotin. 
The  State?  But  the  State  and  the  Country  are  not  the 
same  thing.  The  confusion  is  made  by  those  who  find  profit 
in  it;  the  State  is  our  strength,  used  and  abused  by  men 
like  ourselves,  no  better  than  ourselves,  often  worse.  We 
are  not  duped  by  them,  and  in  times  of  peace  we  judge 
them  fairly  enough,  but  let  a  war  come  on,  they  are  given 
carte  blanche,  they  can  appeal  to  the  lowest  instincts,  stifle 
all  control,  suppress  liberty  and  truth,  destroy  all  humanity; 
they  are  masters,  we  must  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  to 
defend  the  honour  and  the  mistakes  of  these  Masacarilles 
arrayed  in  borrowed  plumes.  We  are  all  answerable,  do 
you  say?  Terrible  net- work  of  words!  Responsible  no 
doubt  we  are  for  the  best  and  the  worst  of  our  people,  it 
is  a  fact  as  we  well  know,  but  that  it  is  a  duty  that  binds 
us  to  their  injustices  and  their  insanities.  ...  I  deny 
it!   .   .   . 

There  can  be  no  question  as  to  community  of  interest. 
No  one,  thought  Clerambault,  has  had  more  joy  in  it,  or 
said  more  in  praise  of  its  greatness.  It  is  good  and  healthy, 
it  makes  for  rest  and  strength,  to  plunge  the  bare,  stiff,  cold 
ego  into  the  collective  mind,  as  into  a  bath  of  confidence 
and  fraternal  gifts.  It  unbends,  gives  itself,  breathes  more 
deeply;   man  needs  his  fellow-man,  and  owes  himself  to 


CLERAMBAULT  59 

him,  but  in  order  to  give  out,  he  must  possess,  he  must  be 
something.  But  how  can  he  be,  if  his  self  is  merged  in 
others?  He  has  many  duties,  but  the  highest  of  all  is  to  be 
and  remain  himself;  even  when  he  sacrifices  and  gives  all 
*that  he  is.  To  bathe  in  the  soul  of  others  would  be  dan- 
gerous as  a  permanent  state;  one  dip,  for  health's  sake,  but 
do  not  stay  too  long,  or  you  will  lose  all  moral  vigour.  In 
our  day  you  are  plunged  from  childhood,  whether  you  like 
it  or  not,  into  the  democratic  tub.  Society  thinks  for  you, 
imposes  its  morality  upon  you;  its  State  acts  for  you,  its 
fashions  and  its  opinions  steal  from  you  the  very  air  you 
breathe;  you  have  no  lungs,  no  heart,  no  light  of  your 
own.  You  serve  what  you  despise,  you  lie  in  every  gesture, 
word,  and  thought,  you  surrender,  become  nothing.  .  .  . 
What  does  it  profit  us  all,  if  we  all  surrender?  For  the 
sake  of  whom,  or  what?  To  satisfy  blind  instincts,  or 
rogues?  Does  God  rule,  or  do  some  charlatans  speak  for 
the  oracle?  Let  us  lift  the  veil,  and  look  the  hidden  thing 
behind  it  in  the  face.  .  .  .  Our  Country!  A  great  noble 
word  I  The  father,  brother  embracing  brother.  .  .  . 
That  is  not  what  your  false  country  offers  me,  but  an  en- 
closure, a  pit  full  of  beasts,  trenches,  barriers,  prison  bars. 
.  .  .  My  brothers,  where  are  they?  Where  are  those  who 
travail  all  over  the  world?  Cain,  what  hast  thou  done  with 
them?  I  stretch  out  my  arms;  a  wave  of  blood  separates 
us;  in  my  own  country  I  am  only  an  anonymous  instru- 
ment of  assassination.  .  .  .  My  Country!  but  it  is  you 
who  destroy  her!  .  .  .  My  Country  was  the  great  com- 
munity of  mankind;  you  have  ravaged  it,  for  thought  and 
liberty  know  not  where  to  lay  their  heads  in  Europe  today. 
I  must  rebuild  my  house,  the  home  of  us  all,  for  you  have 
none,  yours  is  a  dungeon.  .  .  .  How  can  it  be  done,  where 
shall  I  look,  or  find  shelter?  .  .  .  They  have  taken  every- 
thing from  me!     There  is  not  a  free  spot  on  earth  or  in 


6o  CLERAMBAULT 

the  mind;  all  the  sanctuaries  of  the  soul,  of  art,  of  science, 
religion,  they  are  all  violated,  all  enslaved!  I  am  alone, 
lost,  nothing  remains  to  me  but  death  I   .    .    . 

When  he  had  torn  everything  away,  there  remained 
nothing  but  his  naked  soul.  And  for  the  rest  of  the  night, 
it  could  only  stand  chilled  and  shivering.  But  a  spark 
lived  in  this  spirit  that  shivered,  in  this  tiny  being  lost  in 
the  universe  like  those  shapes  which  the  primitive  painters 
represented  coming  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  dying.  With 
the  dawn  the  feeble  flame,  stifled  under  so  many  false- 
hoods, began  to  revive,  and  was  relighted  by  the  first 
breath  of  free  air;  nothing  could  again  extinguish  it. 


Upon  this  agony  or  parturition  of  the  soul  there  followed 
a  long  sad  day,  the  repose  of  a  broken  spirit,  in  a  great 
silence  with  the  aching  relief  of  duty  performed.  .  .  . 
Clerambault  sat  with  his  head  against  the  back  of  his  arm- 
chair, and  thought;  his  body  was  feverish,  his  heart  heavy 
with  recollections.  The  tears  fell  unnoticed  from  his  eyes, 
while  out  of  doors  nature  awoke  sadly  to  the  last  days 
of  winter,  like  him  stripped  and  bare.  But  still  there  trem- 
bled a  warmth  beneath  the  icy  air,  which  was  to  kindle 
a  new  fire  everywhere. 


PART  TWO 


It  was  a  week  before  Clerambault  could  go  out  again. 
The  terrible  crisis  through  which  he  had  passed  had  left 
him  weak  but  resolved,  and  though  the  exaltation  of  his 
despair  had  quieted  down,  he  was  stoically  determined  to 
follow  the  truth  even  to  the  end.  The  remembrance  of  the 
errors  in  which  his  mind  had  delighted,  and  the  half-truths 
on  which  it  had  fed  made  him  humble;  he  doubted  his  own 
strength,  and  wished  to  advance  step  by  step.  He  was 
ready  to  welcome  the  advice  of  those  wiser  than  himself. 
He  remembered  how  Perrotin  listened  to  his  former  confi- 
dences with  a  sarcastic  reserve  that  irritated  him  at  the 
time,  but  which  now  attracted  him.  His  first  visit  of  con- 
valescence was  to  this  wise  old  friend. 

Perrotin  was  rather  short-sighted  and  selfish,  and  did  not 
take  the  trouble  to  look  carefully  at  things  that  were  not 
necessary  to  him,  being  a  closer  observer  of  books  than  of 
faces,  but  he  was  none  the  less  struck  by  the  alteration  in 
Clerambault 's  expression. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  he,  "  have  you  been  ill?  " 

"  Yes,  ill  enough,"  answered  Clerambault,  "  but  I  have 
pulled  myself  together  again,  and  am  better  now." 

"  It  is  the  cruelest  blow  of  all,"  said  Perrotin,  "  to  lose 
at  our  age,  such  a  friend  as  your  poor  boy  was  to  you  ..." 

"  The  most  cruel  is  not  his  loss,"  said  the  father,  "  it  is 
that  I  contributed  to  his  death." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  good  friend?  "  said  Perrotin  in 
surprise.  "  How  can  you  imagine  such  things  to  add  to 
your  trouble?  " 

"  It  was  I  who  shut  his  eyes,"  said  Clerambault  bitterly, 
"  and  h«  has  opened  mine." 

Perrotin  pushed  aside  the  work,  which  according  to  his 

65 


66  CLERAMBAULT 

habit  he  had  continued  to  ruminate  upon  during  the  con- 
versation, and  looked  narrowly  at  his  friend,  who  bent  his 
head,  and  began  his  story  in  an  indistinct  voice,  sad  and 
charged  with  feeling.  Like  a  Christian  of  the  early  times 
making  public  confession,  he  accused  himself  of  falsehood 
towards  his  faith,  his  heart,  and  his  reason. 

When  the  Apostle  saw  his  Lord  in  chains,  he  was  afraid 
and  denied  Him;  but  he  was  not  brought  so  low  as  to  offer 
his  services  as  executioner.  He,  Clerambault,  had  not  only 
deserted  the  cause  of  human  brotherhood,  he  had  debased 
it;  he  had  continued  to  talk  of  fraternity,  while  he  was 
stirring  up  hatred.  Like  those  lying  priests  who  distort  the 
Scriptures  to  serve  their  wicked  purposes,  he  had  knowingly 
altered  the  most  generous  ideas  to  disguise  murderous  pas- 
sions. 

He  extolled  war,  while  calling  himself  a  pacifist;  pro- 
fessed to  be  humanitarian,  previously  putting  the  enemy 
outside  humanity.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  much  franker  it  would 
have  been  to  yield  to  force  than  to  lend  himself  to  its  dis- 
honouring compromises!  It  was  thanks  to  such  sophistries 
as  his  that  the  idealism  of  young  men  was  thrown  into  the 
arena.  Those  old  poisoners,  the  artists  and  thinkers,  had 
sweetened  the  death-brew  with  their  honeyed  rhetoric,  which 
would  have  been  found  out  and  rejected  by  every  conscience 
with  disgust,  if  it  had  not  been  for  their  falsehoods.  .    ,    . 

"  The  blood  of  my  son  is  on  my  head,"  said  Clerambault 
sadly.  "  The  death  of  the  youth  of  Europe,  in  all  coun- 
tries, lies  at  the  door  of  European  thought.  It  has  been 
everywhere  a  servant  to  the  hangman." 

Perrotin  leaned  over  and  took  Clerambault's  hand.  "  My 
poor  friend,"  said  he,  "you  make  too  much  of  this.  No 
doubt  you  are  right  to  acknowledge  the  errors  of  judgment 
into  which  you  have  been  drawn  by  public  opinion,  and  I 
may  confess  to  you  now  that  I  was  sorry  to  see  it;  but  you 
are  wrong  to  ascribe  to  yourself  and  other  thinkers  so  much 


CXERAMBAULT  87, 

responsibility  for  the  events  of  today.  One  man  speaks, 
another  acts;  but  the  speakers  do  not  move  the  others  to 
action;  they  are  all  drifting  with  the  tide.  This  unfor- 
tunate European  thought  is  a  bit  of  drift-wood  like  the 
rest,  it  does  not  make  the  current,  it  is  carried  along  by  it." 

"  It  persuades  people  to  yield  to  it,"  said  Clerambault, 
"  instead  of  helping  the  swimmers,  and  bidding  them 
struggle  against  it;  it  says:  Let  yourself  go.  .  .  .  No, 
my  friend,  do  not  try  to  diminish  its  responsibility,  it  is 
the  greatest  of  all.  Our  thought  had  the  best  place  from 
which  to  see;  its  business  was  to  keep  watch,  and  if  it  saw 
nothing,  it  was  through  lack  of  good-will,  for  it  cannot  lay 
the  blame  on  its  eyes,  which  are  clear  enough.  You  know 
it  and  so  do  I,  now  that  I  have  come  to  my  senses.  The 
same  intelligence  which  darkened  my  eyes,  has  now  torn 
away  the  bandage;  how  can  it  be,  at  the  same  time,  a 
power  for  truth  and  for  falsehood?  " 

Perrotin  shook  his  head. 

"  Yes,  intelligence  is  so  great  and  so  high  that  she  can- 
not put  herself  at  the  service  of  any  other  forces  without 
derogation;  for  if  she  is  no  longer  mistress  and  free,  she 
is  degraded.  It  is  a  case  of  Roman  master  debasing  the 
Greek,    his    superior,    and    making   him   his    purveyor — 

Graeculus,  sophist,  Laeno To  the  vulgar  the 

intelligence  is  a  sort  of  maid-of-all-work,  and  in  this  position 
she  displays  the  sly,  dishonest  cleverness  of  her  kind.  Some- 
times she  is  employed  by  hatred,  pride,  or  self-interest,  and 
then  she  flatters  these  little  devils,  dressing  them  up  as 
Idealism,  Love,  Faith,  Liberty,  and  social  generosity;  for 
when  a  man  does  not  love  his  neighbour,  he  says  he  loves 
God,  his  Country,  or  even  Humanity.  Sometimes  the  poor 
master  is  himself  a  slave  to  the  State,  Under  threat  of  punish- 
ment, the  social  machine  forces  him  to  acts  which  are  re- 
pugnant, but  the  complaisant  intelligence  persuades  him 
that  these  are  fine  and  glorious,  and  performed  by  him  of 


68  CLERAMBAULT 

his  own  free  will.  In  either  case  the  intelligence  knows  what 
she  is  about,  and  is  always  at  our  disposition  if  we  really 
want  her  to  tell  us  the  truth;  but  we  take  good  care  to 
avoid  it,  and  never  to  be  left  alone  with  her.  We  manage 
so  as  to  meet  her  only  in  public  when  we  can  put  leading 
questions  as  we  please.  .  .  .  When  all  is  said,  the  earth 
goes  round  none  the  less,  e  pur  se  muove; — the  laws  of 
the  world  are  obeyed,  and  the  free  mind  beholds  them. 
All  the  rest  is  vanity;  the  passions,  faith,  sincere  or  insin- 
cere, are  only  the  painted  face  of  that  necessity  which 
rules  the  world,  without  caring  for  our  idols:  family,  race, 
country,  religion,  society,  progress.  .  .  .  Progress  indeed! 
The  great  illusion!  Humanity  is  like  water  that  must  find 
its  level,  and  when  the  cistern  brims  over  a  valve  opens 
and  it  is  empty  again.  ...  A  catastrophic  rhythm,  the 
heights  of  civilisation,  and  then  downfall.  We  rise,  and  are 
cast  down  ..." 

Thus  Perrotin  calmly  unveiled  his  Thought.  She  was 
not  much  accustomed  to  going  naked;  but  she  forgot  that 
she  had  a  witness,  and  undressed  as  if  she  were  alone.  She 
was  extremely  bold,  as  is  often  the  thought  of  a  man  of 
letters  not  obliged  to  suit  the  action  to  the  word,  but  who 
much  prefers,  on  the  contrary,  not  to  do  so.  The  alarmed 
Clerambault  listened  with  his  mouth  open;  certain  words 
revolted  him,  others  pierced  him  to  the  heart;  his  head 
swam,  but  he  overcame  his  weakness,  for  he  was  determined 
to  lose  nothing  of  these  profundities.  He  pressed  Perrotin 
with  questions:  and  he,  on  his  part,  flattered  and  smiling, 
complaisantly  unrolled  his  pyrrhonian  visions,  as  peaceable 
as  they  were  destructive. 

The  vapours  of  the  pit  were  rising  all  about  them;  and 
Clerambault  was  admiring  the  ease  of  this  free  spirit 
perched  on  the  edge  of  the  abyss  and  enjoying  it,  when  the 
door  opened,  and  the  servant  came  in  with  a  card  which 
he  gave  to  Perrotin. 


CLERAMBAULT  69 

At  once  the  terrible  phantoms  of  the  brain  vanished;  a 
trap-door  shut  out  the  emptiness,  and  an  official  drawing- 
room  rug  covered  it.  Perrotin  roused  himself  and  said 
eagerly:  "  Certainly,  show  him  in  at  once."  Turning  to 
Clerambault  he  added: 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  friend,  it  is  the  Honourable 
Under-Secretary  of  State  for  Public  Instruction." 

He  was  already  on  his  feet  and  went  to  meet  his  visitor, 
a  stage-lover  looking  fellow,  with  the  blue  clean-shaven 
chin  of  a  priest  or  a  Yankee,  who  held  his  head  very  high, 
and  wore  in  the  grey  cut-a-way  which  clothed  his  well- 
rounded  figure,  the  rosette  which  is  displayed  alike  by  our 
heroes  and  our  lackeys.  The  old  gentleman  presented 
Clerambault  to  him  with  cheerful  alacrity:  "  Mr.  Agenor 
Clerambault — Mr,  Hyacinth  Moncheri,"  and  asked  the 
Honourable  Under-Secretary  of  State  to  what  he  owed  the 
honour  of  his  visit.  The  Honourable  Under-Secretary,  not 
in  the  least  surprised  by  the  obsequious  welcome  of  the 
old  scholar,  settled  himself  in  his  armchair  with  the  lofty 
air  of  familiarity  suitable  to  the  superior  position  he  held 
over  the  two  representatives  of  French  letters.  He  repre- 
sented the  State. 

Speaking  haughtily  through  his  nose,  and  braying  like 
a  dromedary,  he  extended  to  Perrotin  an  invitation  from 
the  Minister  to  preside  over  a  solemn  contest  of  embattled 
intellectuals  from  ten  nations,  in  the  great  amphitheatre  of 
the  Sorbonne — "  an  imprecatory  meeting,"  he  called  it. 
Perrotin  promptly  accepted,  and  professed  himself  overcome 
by  the  honour.  His  servile  tone  before  this  licensed  gov- 
ernment ignoramus  made  a  striking  contrast  with  his  bold 
statements  a  few  moments  before,  and  Clerambault,  some- 
what taken  aback,  thought  of  the  Graeculus. 

Mr.  "  Cheri "  walked  out  with  his  head  in  the  air, 
like  an  ass  in  a  sacred  procession,  accompanied  by  Perrotin 
to  the  very  threshold,  and  when  the  friends  were  once  more 


70  CLERAMBAULT 

alone,  Clerambault  would  have  liked  to  resume  the  con- 
versation, but  he  could  not  conceal  that  he  was  a  little 
chilled  by  what  had  passed.  He  asked  Perrotin  if  he  meant 
to  state  in  public  the  opinions  he  had  just  professed,  and 
Perrotin  refused,  naturally,  laughing  at  his  friend's  sim- 
plicity. What  is  more,  he  cautioned  him  affectionately 
against  proclaiming  such  ideas  from  the  house-tops.  Cler- 
ambault was  vexed  and  disputed  the  point,  but  in  order  to 
make  the  situation  clear  to  him,  and  with  the  utmost  frank- 
ness, Perrotin  described  his  surroundings,  the  great  minds 
of  the  higher  University,  which  he  represented  officially: 
historians,  philosophers,  professors  of  rhetoric.  He  spoke 
of  them  politely  but  with  a  deep  half-concealed  contempt, 
and  a  touch  of  personal  bitterness;  for  in  spite  of  his  pru- 
dence, the  less  intelligent  of  his  colleagues  looked  on  him 
with  suspicion;  he  was  too  clever.  He  said  he  was  like 
an  old  blind  man's  dog  in  a  pack  of  barking  curs;  forced 
to  do  as  they  did  and  bark  at  the  passers-by. 

Clerambault  did  not  quarrel  with  him,  but  went  away 
with  pity  in  his  heart. 


He  stayed  in  the  house  for  several  days,  for  this  first 
contact  with  the  outside  world  had  depressed  him,  and  the 
friend  on  whom  he  had  relied  for  guidance  had  failed  him 
miserably.  He  was  much  troubled,  for  Clerambault  was 
weak  and  unused  to  stand  alone.  Pfiet  as  he  was,  and 
absolutely  sincere,  he  had  never  felt  it  necessary  to  think 
independently  of  others ;  he  had  let  himself  be  carried  along 
by  their  thou^t,  making  it  his  own,  becoming  its  inspired 
voice  and  mouth-piece.  Now  all  was  suddenly  changed. 
Notwithstanding  that  night  of  crisis,  his  doubts  returned 
upon  him;  for  after  fifty  a  man's  nature  cannot  be  trans- 
formed at  a  touch,  no  matter  how  much  the  mind  may  have 
retained  the  elasticity  of  youth.  The  light  of  a  revelation 
does  not  always  shine,  like  the  sun  in  a  clear  summer  sky, 
but  is  more  like  an  arc-light,  which  often  winks  and  goes 
out  before  the  current  becomes  strong.  When  these  irregular 
pulsations  fade  out,  the  shadows  appear  deeper,  and  the 
spirit  totters  and  then — .  It  was  hard  for  Clerambault  to 
get  along  without  other  people. 

He  decided  to  visit  all  his  friends,  of  whom  he  had  many, 
in  the  literary  world,  in  the  University,  and  among  the  in- 
telligent bourgeoisie.  He  was  sure  to  find  some  among 
them  who,  better  than  he,  could  divine  the  problems  which 
beset  him,  and  help  him  in  their  solution. 

Timidly,  without  as  yet  betraying  his  own  mind,  he  tried 
to  read  theirs,  to  listen  and  observe;  but  he  had  not  realised 
that  the  veil  had  fallen  from  his  eyes;  and  the  vision  that 
he  saw  of  a  world,  once  well-known  to  him,  seemed  strange 
and  cold. 

The  whole  world  of  letters  was  mobilised;  so  that  per- 
sonalities were  no  longer  to  be  distinguished.    The  univer- 


72  CLERAMBAULT 

sities  formed  a  ministry  of  domesticated  intelligence;  its 
functions  were  to  draw  up  the  acts  of  the  State,  its  master 
and  patron;  the  different  departments  were  known  by  their 
professional  twists. 

The  professors  of  literature  were  above  all  skilful  in  de- 
veloping moral  arguments  oratorically  under  the  three  terms 
of  the  syllogism.  Their  mania  was  an  excessive  simplifica- 
tion of  argument ;  they  put  high-sounding  words  in  the  place 
of  reason,  and  made  too  much  of  a  few  ideas,  always  the 
same,  lifeless  for  lack  of  colour  or  shading.  They  had  un- 
earthed these  weapons  of  a  so-called  classic  antiquity,  the 
key  to  which  had  been  jealously  guarded  throughout  the  ages 
by  academic  Mamelukes,  and  these  eloquent  antiquated 
ideas  were  falsely  called  Humanities,  though  in  many  re- 
spects they  offended  the  common-sense  and  the  heart  of 
humanity  as  it  is  today.  Still  they  bore  the  hall-mark  of 
Rome,  prototype  of  all  our  modern  states,  and  their 
authorised  exponents  were  the  State  rhetoricians. 

The  philosophers  excelled  in  abstract  constructions;  they 
had  the  art  of  explaining  the  concrete  by  the  abstract,  the 
real  by  its  shadow.  They  systematised  some  hasty  partial 
observations,  melted  them  in  their  alembics,  and  from  them 
deduced  laws  to  regulate  the  entire  world.  They  strove  to 
subject  life,  multiple  and  many-sided,  to  the  unity  of 
the  mind,  that  is,  to  their  mind.  The  time-serving  trickeries 
of  a  sophistical  profession  facilitated  this  imperialism  of  the 
reason;  they  knew  how  to  handle  ideas,  twisting,  stretching, 
and  tying  them  together  like  strips  of  candy;  it  would  have 
been  child's  play  for  them  to  make  a  camel  pass  through 
the  eye  of  a  needle.  They  could  also  prove  that  black  was 
white,  and  could  find  in  the  works  of  Emanuel  Kant  the 
freedom  of  the  world,  or  Prussian  militarism,  just  as  they 
saw  fit. 

The  historians  were  the  born  scribes,  attorneys,  and 
lawyers  of  the  Government,  charged  with  the  care  of  its 


CLERAMBAULT  73 

charters,  its  title-deeds,  and  cases,  and  armed  to  the  teeth 
for  its  future  quarrels.  .  .  .  What  is  history  after  all?  The 
story  of  success,  the  demonstration  of  what  has  been  done, 
just  or  unjust.  The  defeated  have  no  history.  Be  silent, 
you  Persians  of  Salamis,  slaves  of  Spartacus,  Gauls,  Arabs 
of  Poitiers,  Albigenses,  Irish,  Indians  of  both  Americas,  and 
colonial  peoples  generally!  .  .  .  When  a  worthy  man  re- 
volting against  the  injustices  of  his  day,  puts  his  hope  in 
posterity  by  way  of  consolation,  he  forgets  that  this  pos- 
terity has  but  little  chance  to  learn  of  former  events.  All 
that  can  be  known  is  what  the  advocates  of  official  history 
think  favourable  to  the  cause  of  their  client,  the  State.  A 
lawyer  for  the  adverse  party  may  possibly  intervene — 
someone  of  another  nation,  or  of  an  oppressed  social  or  re- 
ligious group;  but  there  is  small  chance  for  him;  the  secret 
is  kept  too  well! 

Orators,  sophists,  and  pleaders,  the  three  corporations  of 
the  Faculty  of  Letters, — Letters  of  State,  signed  and 
patented ! 

The  studies  of  the  "  scientifics  "  ought  to  have  protected 
them  better  from  the  suggestions  and  contagions  of  the 
outside  world — that  is,  if  they  confined  themselves  to  their 
trade.  Unfortunately  they  have  been  tempted  from  it,  for 
the  applied  sciences  have  taken  so  large  a  place  in  practical 
affairs  that  experts  find  themselves  thrown  into  the  fore- 
most ranks  of  action,  and  exposed  to  all  the  infections  of 
the  public  mind.  Their  self-respect  is  directly  interested 
in  the  victory  of  the  community,  which  can  as  easily 
assimilate  the  heroism  of  the  soldier  as  the  follies  and 
falsehoods  of  the  publicist.  Few  scientific  men  have  had 
the  strength  to  keep  themselves  free;  for  the  most  part 
they  have  only  contributed  the  rigour,  the  stiffness  of  the 
geometrical  mind,  added  to  professional  rivalries,  always 
more  acute  between  learned  bodies  of  different  nationalities. 

The  regular  writers,  poets,  and  novelists,  who  have  no 


74  CLERAMBAULT 

official  ties,  they,  at  least  should  have  the  advantages  of 
their  independence;  but  unfortunately  few  of  them  are  able 
to  judge  for  themselves  of  events  which  are  beyond  the 
limits  of  their  habitual  preoccupations,  commercial  or 
aesthetic.  The  greater  number,  and  not  the  least  known, 
are  as  ignorant  as  fishes.  It  would  be  best  for  them  to 
stick  to  their  shop,  according  to  their  natural  instinct;  but 
their  vanity  has  been  foolishly  tickled,  and  they  have  been 
urged  to  mix  themselves  up  with  public  affairs,  and  give 
their  opinion  on  the  universe.  They  can  naturally  have  but 
scattering  views  on  such  subjects,  and  in  default  of  per- 
sonal judgment,  they  drift  with  the  current,  reacting  with 
extreme  quickness  to  any  shock,  for  they  are  ultra-sensitive, 
with  a  morbid  vanity  which  exaggerates  the  thoughts  of 
others  when  it  cannot  express  their  own.  This  is  the  only 
originality  at  their  disposal,  and  God  knows  they  make  the 
most  of  it! 

What  remains?  the  Clergy?  It  is  they  who  handle  the 
heaviest  explosives;  the  ideas  of  Justice,  Truth,  Right,  and 
God;  and  they  make  this  artillery  fight  for  their  passions. 
Their  absurd  pride,  of  which  they  are  quite  unconscious, 
causes  them  to  lay  claim  to  the  property  of  God,  and  to 
the  exclusive  right  to  dispose  of  it  wholesale  and  retail. 

It  is  not  so  much  that  they  lack  sincerity,  virtue,  or 
kindness,  but  they  do  lack  humility;  they  have  none,  how- 
ever much  they  may  profess  it.  Their  practice  consists  in 
adoring  their  navel  as  they  see  it  reflected  in  the  Talmud, 
or  the  Old  and  New  Testaments.  They  are  monsters  of 
pride,  not  so  very  far  removed  from  the  fool  of  legend  who 
thought  himself  God  the  Father.  Is  it  so  much  less  dan- 
gerous to  believe  oneself  His  manager,  or  His  secretary? 

Clerambault  was  struck  by  the  morbid  character  of  the 
intellectual  species.  In  the  bourgeois  caste  the  power  of 
organisation  and  expression  of  ideas  has  reached  almost 
monstrous  proportions.    The  equilibrium  of  life  is  destroyed 


CXERAMBAULT  75 

by  a  bureaucracy  of  the  mind  which  thinks  itself  much 
siqjerior  to  the  simple  worker.  Certainly  no  one  can  deny 
that  it  has  its  uses;  it  collects  and  classifies  thoughts  in 
its  pigeon-holes  and  puts  them  to  various  purposes,  but 
the  idea  rarely  occurs  to  it  to  examine  its  material  and 
renew  the  content  of  thought. 

It  remains  the  vain  guardian  of  a  demonetised  treasure. 
If  only  this  mistake  were  a  harmless  one;  but  ideas  that 
are  not  constantly  confronted  with  reality,  which  are  not 
frequently  dipped  into  the  stream  of  experience,  grow  dry, 
and  take  on  a  toxic  character.  They  throw  a  heavy  shadow 
over  the  new  life,  bring  on  the  night  and  produce  fever. 
What  a  stupid  thraldom  to  abstract  words!  Of  what  use 
is  it  to  dethrone  kings  and  by  what  right  do  we  jeer  at 
those  who  die  for  their  masters,  if  it  is  only  to  put  tyrannic 
entities  in  their  places,  which  we  adorn  with  their  tinsel? 
It  is  much  better  to  have  a  flesh  and  blood  monarch,  whom 
you  can  control — suppress  if  necessary — than  these  ab- 
stractions, these  invisible  despots,  that  no  one  knows  now, 
nor  ever  has  known.  We  deal  only  with  the  head  Eunuchs, 
the  priests  of  the  hidden  Crocodile,  as  Taine  calls  him,  the 
wire-pulling  ministers  who  speak  in  the  idol's  name. — Ah! 
let  us  tear  away  the  veil  and  know  the  creature  hidden 
inside  of  us.  There  is  less  danger  when  man  shows  frankly 
as  a  brute  than  when  he  drapes  himself  in  a  false  and  sickly 
idealism.  He  does  not  eliminate  his  animal  instincts,  he 
only  deifies  and  tries  to  explain  them,  but  as  this  cannot 
be  done  without  excessive  simplification — according  to  the 
law  of  the  mind  which  in  order  to  grasp  must  let  go  an 
equal  amount — he  disguises  and  intensifies  them  in  one 
direction.  Everything  that  departs  from  the  straight  line 
or  that  interferes  with  the  strict  logic  of  his  mental  edifice, 
he  denies;  worse  he  pulls  it  up  by  the  roots,  and  commands 
that  it  be  destroyed  in  the  name  of  sacred  principles.  It 
therefore  follows  that  he  cuts  down  much  of  the  infinite 


76  CLERAMBAULT 

growth  of  nature,  and  allows  to  stand  only  the  trees  of 
the  mind  that  he  chooses — generally  those  that  flourish  in 
deserts  and  ruins  and  which  there  grow  abnormally.  Of 
such  is  the  crushing  predominance  of  one  single  tyraimous 
form  of  the  Family,  of  Country,  and  of  the  narrow  morality 
which  serves  them.  The  poor  creature  is  proud  of  it  all; 
and  it  is  he  who  is  the  victim. 

Humanity  does  not  dare  to  massacre  itself  from  inter- 
ested motives.  It  is  not  proud  of  its  interests,  but  it  does 
pride  itself  on  its  ideas  which  are  a  thousand  times  more 
deadly.  iSIan  sees  his  own  superiority  in  his  ideas,  and  will 
fight  for  them;  but  herein  I  perceive  his  folly,  for  this  war- 
like idealism  is  a  disease  peculiar  to  him,  and  its  effects  are 
similar  to  those  of  alcoholism;  they  add  enormously  to 
wickedness  and  criminality.  This  sort  of  intoxication  de- 
teriorates the  brain,  filling  it  with  hallucinations,  to  which 
the  living  are  sacrificed. 

What  an  extraordinary  spectacle,  seen  from  the  interior 
of  our  skulls!  A  throng  of  phantoms  rising  from  our  over- 
excited brains:  Justice,  Liberty,  Right,  Cotmtry.  .  .  .  Our 
poor  brains  are  all  equally  honest,  but  each  accuses  the 
other  of  insincerity.  In  this  fantastic  shadowy  struggle,  we 
can  distinguish  nothing  but  the  cries  and  the  convulsions 
of  the  human  animal,  possessed  by  devils.  .  .  .  Below  are 
clouds  charged  with  lightnings,  where  great  fierce  birds  are 
fighting;  the  realists,  the  men  of  affairs,  swarm  and  gnaw 
like  fleas  in  a  skin;  with  open  mouths,  and  grasping  hands, 
secretly  exciting  the  folly  by  which  they  profit,  but  in  which 
they  do  not  share.  .    .    . 

O  Thought!  monstrous  and  splendid  flower  springing 
from  the  humus  of  our  time-honoured  instincts!  ...  In 
truth,  thou  art  an  element  penetrating  and  impregnating 
man,  but  thou  dost  not  spring  from  him,  thy  source  is 
beyond  him,  and  thy  strength  greater  than  his.  Our  senses 
are  fairly  well-adapted  to  our  needs  but  our  thought  is  not, 


CLERAMBAULT  77 

it  overflows  and  maddens  us.  Very,  very  few  among  us 
men  can  guide  tliemselves  on  this  torrent;  the  far  greater 
number  are  swept  along,  at  random,  trusting  to  chance.  ] 
The  tremendous  power  of  thought  is  not  under  man's  con- 
trol; he  tries  to  make  it  serve  him,  and  his  greatest  danger 
is  that  he  believes  that  it  does  so;  but  he  is  like  a  child 
handling  explosives;  there  is  no  proportion  between  these  ' 
colossal  engines  and  the  purpose  for  which  his  feeble  hands  / 
employ  them.  Sometimes  they  all  blow  up  together.  .  .  . 
How  guard  against  this  danger?  Shall  we  stifle  thought, 
uproot  living  ideas?  That  would  mean  the  castration  of 
man's  brain,  the  loss  of  his  chief  stimulus  in  life;  but  never- 
theless the  eau-de-vie  of  his  mind  contains  a  poison  which  is 
the  more  to  be  dreaded  because  it  is  spread  broadcast  among 
the  masses,  in  the  form  of  adulterated  drugs.  .  ,  .  Rouse 
thee,  Man,  and  sober  thyself!  Look  about;  shake  off  ideas. 
Free  thyself  from  thine  own  thoughts  and  learn  to  govern 
thy  gigantic  phantoms  which  devour  themselves  in  their  rage. 
.  .  ,  And  begin  by  taking  the  capitals  from  the  names  of 
those  great  goddesses.  Country,  Liberty,  Right.  Come 
down  from  Olympus  into  the  manger,  and  come  without 
ornaments,  without  arms,  rich  only  in  your  beauty,  and 
our  love.  ...  I  do  not  know  the  gods  of  Justice  and 
Liberty;  I  only  know  my  brother-man,  and  his  acts,  some- 
times just,  sometimes  unjust;  and  I  also  know  of  peoples, 
all  aspiring  to  real  liberty  but  all  deprived  of  it,  and  who 
all,  more  or  less,  submit  to  oppression. 


The  sight  of  this  world  in  a  fever-fit  would  have  filled 
a  sage  with  the  desire  to  withdraw  until  the  attack  was 
over;  but  Clerambault  was  not  a  sage.  He  knew  this,  and 
he  also  knew  that  it  was  vain  to  speak;  but  none  the  less 
he  felt  that  he  must,  that  he  should  end  by  speaking.  He 
wished  to  delay  the  dangerous  moment,  and  his  timidity, 
which  shrank  from  single  combat  with  the  world,  sought 
about  him  for  a  companion  in  thought.  The  fight  would 
not  be  so  hard  if  there  were  two  or  three  together. 

The  first  whose  feeling  he  cautiously  sounded  were  some 
unfortunate  people  who,  like  him,  had  lost  a  son.  The 
father,  a  well-known  painter,  had  a  studio  in  the  Rue  Notre 
Dame  des  Champs.  His  name  was  Omer  Calville  and  the 
Clerambaults  were  neighbourly  with  him  and  his  wife,  a 
nice  old  couple  of  the  middle  class,  devoted  to  each  other. 
They  had  that  gentleness,  common  to  many  artists  of  their 
day,  who  had  known  Carriere,  and  caught  remote  reflec- 
tions of  Tolstoism,  which,  like  their  simplicity,  appeared  a 
little  artificial,  for  though  it  harmonised  with  their  real 
goodness  of  heart,  the  fashion  of  the  time  had  added  a 
touch  of  exaggeration. 

Those  artists  who  sincerely  profess  their  religious  respect 
for  all  that  Hves,  are  less  capable  than  anyone  else  of  under- 
standing the  passions  of  war.  The  Calvilles  had  held  them- 
selves outside  the  struggle;  they  did  not  protest,  they  ac- 
cepted it,  without  acquiescing,  as  one  accepts  sickness, 
death,  or  the  wickedness  of  men,  with  a  dignified  sadness. 

When  Clerambault  read  them  his  burning  poems  they 
listened  politely  and  made  little  response — but  strangely 
enough,  at  the  very  time  that  Clerambault,  cured  of  his 

78 


CLERAMBAULT  79 

vrarlike  illusions,  turned  to  them,  he  found  that  they  had 
changed  places  with  him.  The  death  of  their  son  had  pro- 
duced on  them  the  opposite  effect.  And  now  they  were 
awkwardly  taking  part  in  the  conflict,  as  if  to  replace  their 
lost  boy.  They  snuffed  up  eagerly  all  the  stench  in  the 
papers,  and  Clerambault  found  them  actually  rejoicing,  in 
their  misery,  over  the  assertion  that  the  United  States  was 
prepared  to  fight  for  twenty  years. 

"  What  would  become  of  France,  of  Europe,  in  twenty 
years?  "  he  tried  to  say,  but  they  hastily  put  this  thought 
away  from  them  with  much  irritation,  almost  as  if  it  were 
improper  to  mention,  or  even  to  think  of  such  a  thing. 

The  question  was  to  conquer;  at  what  price?  That  could 
be  settled  afterwards. — Conquer?  Suppose  there  were  no 
more  conquerors  left  in  France?  Never  mind,  so  long  as 
the  others  are  beaten.  No,  it  should  not  be  that  the  blood 
of  their  son  had  been  shed  in  vain. 

"  And  to  avenge  his  death,  must  other  innocent  lives 
also  be  sacrificed?  "  thought  Clerambault,  and  in  the  hearts 
of  these  good  people  he  read  the  answer:  "  Why  not?  " 
The  same  idea  was  in  the  minds  of  all  those  who,  like  the 
Calvilles,  had  lost  through  the  war  what  they  held  dearest — 
a  son,  a  husband,  or  a  brother.  .    .   . 

"  Let  the  others  suffer  as  we  have,  we  have  nothing  left 
to  lose."  Was  there  nothing  left?  In  truth  there  wis  one 
thing  only,  on  which  the  fierce  egotism  of  these  mourners 
kept  jealous  guard;  their  faith  in  the  necessity  of  these 
sacrifices.  Let  no  one  try  to  shake  that,  or  doubt  that  the 
cause  was  sacred  for  which  these  dear  ones  fell.  The  leaders 
of  the  war  knew  this,  and  well  did  they  understand  how  to 
make  the  most  of  such  a  lure.  No,  by  these  sad  fire-sides 
there  was  no  place  for  Clerambaull's  doubts  and  feelings 
of  pity. 

"  They  had  no  pity  on  us,"  thought  the  unhappy  ones, 
"  why  should  we  pity  them?  " 


8o  CLERAMBAULT 

Some  had  suffered  less,  but  what  characterised  nearly  all 
of  these  bourgeois  was  the  reverence  they  had  for  the  great 
slogans  of  the  past:  ''  Committee  of  Public  Safety,"  "  The 
Country  in  Danger,"  "  Plutarch,"  "  De  Viris,"  "  Horace," 
— it  seemed  impossible  for  them  to  look  at  the  present  with 
eyes  of  today;  perhaps  they  had  no  eyes  to  see  with.  Out- 
side of  the  narrow  circle  of  their  own  affairs,  how  many 
of  our  anemic  bourgeoisie  have  the  power  to  think  for 
themselves,  after  they  have  reached  the  age  of  thirty?  It 
would  never  cross  their  minds;  their  thoughts  are  furnished 
to  them  like  their  provisions,  only  more  cheaply.  For  one 
or  two  cents  a  day  they  get  them  from  their  papers.  The 
more  intelligent,  who  look  for  thought  in  books,  do  not  give 
themselves  the  trouble  to  seek  it  also  in  life,  and  think  that 
one  is  the  reflection  of  the  other.  Like  the  prematurely 
aged,  their  members  become  stiff,  and  their  minds  petrified. 
In  the  great  flock  of  those  ruminating  souls  who  fed  on 
the  past,  the  group  of  bigots  pinning  its  faith  to  the  French 
Revolution  was  easily  distinguished.  Among  the  backward 
bourgeoisie  they  were  reckoned  incendiary  in  former  days; 
— about  the  time  of  the  i6th  of  May,  or  a  little  later.  Like 
quinquagenarians  grown  stolid  and  settled,  they  looked 
back  with  pride  to  their  wild  conduct,  and  lived  on 
the  memory  of  the  emotions  of  by-gone  days.  If  their 
mirror  showed  them  no  change,  the  world  had  altered 
around  them  without  their  suspecting  it,  while  they  con- 
tinued to  copy  their  antiquated  models.  It  is  a  curious 
imitative  instinct,  a  slavery  of  the  brain,  to  remain  hypno- 
tised by  some  point  in  the  past,  instead  of  trying  to  follow 
Proteus  in  his  course — the  life  of  change.  One  picks  up 
the  old  skin  which  the  young  snake  has  thrown  off  long 
ago,  and  tries  to  sew  it  together  again.  These  pedantic 
admirers  of  old  revolutions  believe  that  those  of  the  future 
will  be  made  on  the  same  lines.  They  will  not  see  that  the 
new  liberty  must  have  a  gait  of  its  own,  and  will  overleap 


CLERAMBAULT  8i 

barriers  before  which  its  grandmother  of  ninety-three 
stopped,  out  of  breath.  They  are  also  much  more  vexed  by 
the  disrespect  of  the  young  people  who  have  gone  by  them, 
than  they  are  by  the  spiteful  yelping  of  the  old  whom  they 
have  left  behind;  this  is  only  natural,  for  these  young  foll^ 
make  them  feel  their  age,  and  then  it  is  their  turn  to  yelp. 

So  it  ever  shall  be;  as  they  grow  older  there  are  very 
few  men  willing  to  let  life  take  its  own  course,  and  who 
are  generous  enough  to  look  at  the  future  through  the  eyes 
of  their  juniors,  as  their  own  sight  grows  dim.  The  greater 
number  of  those  who  loved  liberty  in  their  youth,  want  to 
make  a  cage  of  it  now  for  the  new  broods,  because  they 
can  no  longer  fly  themselves. 

The  followers  of  the  national  revolutionary  cult — in  the 
style  of  Danton,  or  of  Robespierre — were  the  bitterest  ad- 
versaries of  the  internationalism  of  today;  though  they  did 
not  always  agree  perfectly  amongst  themselves,  and  the 
friends  of  Danton  and  Robespierre,  with  the  shadow  of  the 
guillotine  between  them,  hurled  the  epithet  of  heretic  at 
each  other,  with  the  deadliest  threats.  They  did,  however, 
all  agree  on  one  point,  and  devoted  to  destruction  those 
who  did  not  believe  that  Liberty  is  shot  out  of  the  mouth 
of  cannon,  those  who  dared  to  feel  the  same  aversion 
towards  violence,  whether  it  was  exerted  by  Caesar,  Demos, 
or  his  satellites,  or  even  if  it  was  in  the  name  of  right 
and  liberty  itself.  The  face  underneath  is  the  same,  no 
matter  what  mask  may  be  worn. 

Clerambault  knew  several  of  these  fanatics,  but  there  was 
no  point  in  discussing  with  them  whether  the  right,  or  its 
counterfeit,  were  only  on  one  side  in  war;  it  would  have 
been  equally  sensible  to  argue  about  the  Holy  Inquisition 
with  a  Manichee.  Lay  religions  have  their  great  seminaries 
and  secret  societies  where  they  deposit  their  doctrinal 
treasures  with  great  pride.  He  who  departs  from  these  is 
e.xcommunicated — until  he  in  turn  belongs  to  the  past,  when 


82  CLERAMBAULT 

he  becomes  a  go<3,  and  can  excommunicate  in  future  him- 
self. 

If  Clerambault  was  not  tempted  to  convert  these  hardened 
intellectuals  with  their  stiff  helmet  of  truth,  he  knew  others 
who  had  not  the  same  proud  certainty;  far  from  it.  Those 
who  sinned  rather  through  softness  and  pure  dilettantism — 
Arsene  Asselin  was  one  of  these,  an  amiable  Parisian,  im- 
married,  a  man  of  the  world,  clever  and  sceptical;  and  as 
much  shocked  by  a  defect  in  sentiment  as  in  expression. 
How  could  he  like  extremes  of  thought,  which  are  the 
cultures  in  which  the  germs  of  war  develop?  His  critical 
and  sarcastic  spirit  inclined  him  towards  doubt;  so  there 
was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  have  understood  Cleram- 
bault's  point  of  view,  and  he  came  within  an  ace  of  doing 
so.  His  choice  depended  on  some  fortuitous  circumstances, 
but  from  the  moment  that  he  turned  his  face  in  the  other 
direction,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  go  back;  and  the 
more  he  stuck  in  the  mud,  the  more  obstinate  he  grew. 
French  self-respect  cannot  bear  to  admit  its  mistakes;  it 
would  rather  die  in  defence  of  them.  .  .  .  But  French  or 
not,  how  many  are  there  in  the  world  who  would  have  the 
strength  of  mind  to  say:  "  I  have  made  a  mistake,  we  must 
begin  all  over  again."  Better  deny  the  evidence  .  .  . 
"  To  the  bitter  end  "...  And  then  break  down. 

Alexandre  Mignon  was  a  before-the-war  pacifist  and  an 
old  friend  of  Clerambault's.  He  was  a  bourgeois  of  about 
his  own  age,  intellectual,  a  member  of  the  University,  and 
justly  respected  for  the  dignity  of  his  life.  He  should  not 
be  confounded  with  those  parlour  pacifists  covered  with 
official  decorations  and  grand  cordons  of  international 
orders,  for  whom  peace  is  a  gilt-edged  investment  in  quiet 
times.  For  thirty  years  he  had  sincerely  denounced  the  dan- 
gerous intrigues  of  the  dishonest  politicians  and  speculators 
of  his  country;  he  was  a  member  of  the  League  for  the 


CLERAMBAULT  83 

Rights  of  Man,  and  loved  to  make  speeches  for  either  cause, 
as  it  might  happen.  It  was  enough  if  his  client  purported 
to  be  oppressed;  it  did  not  matter  if  the  victim  had  been 
a  would-be  oppressor  himself.  His  blundering  generosity 
sometimes  made  him  ridiculous,  but  he  was  always  liked. 
He  did  not  object  to  the  ridicule,  nor  did  he  dread  a  little 
unpopularity,  as  long  as  he  was  surrounded  by  his  own 
group,  whose  approbation  was  necessary  to  him.  As  a  mem- 
ber of  a  group  which  was  independent  when  they  all  held 
together,  he  bought  that  he  was  an  independent  person, 
but  this  was  not  the  case.  Union  is  strength  they  say,  but 
it  accustoms  us  to  lean  upon  it,  as  Alexandre  Mignon 
found  to  his  cost. 

The  death  of  Jaures  had  broken  up  the  group ;  and  lack- 
ing one  voice — the  first  to  speak — all  the  others  failed. 
They  waited  for  the  password  that  no  one  dared  to  give. 
When  the  torrent  broke  over  them  these  generous  but  weak 
men  were  uncertain,  and  were  carried  away  by  the  first  rush. 
They  did  not  understand  nor  approve  of  it,  but  they  could 
make  no  resistance.  From  the  beginning  desertions  began  in 
their  ranks,  produced  largely  by  the  terrible  speech-makers 
who  then  governed  the  country — demagogue  lawyers,  prac- 
tised in  all  the  sophistries  of  republican  idealogy:  "  War  for 
Peace,  Lasting  Peace  at  the  End  ..."  (Requiescat)  .  .  . 
In  these  artifices  the  poor  pacifists  saw  a  way  to  get  out 
of  their  dilemma;  it  was  not  a  very  brilliant  way  and  they 
were  not  proud  of  it,  but  it  was  their  only  chance.  They 
hoped  to  reconcile  their  pacific  principles  with  the  fact  of 
violence  by  means  of  "  big  talk  "  which  did  not  sound  to 
them  as  outrageous  as  it  really  was.  To  refuse  would  have 
been  to  give  themselves  up  to  the  war-like  pack,  which 
would  have  devoured  them. 

Alexandre  Mignon  would  have  had  courage  to  face  the 
bloody  jaws  if  he  had  had  his  little  community  at  his  back, 
but  alone  it  was  beyond  his  strength.    He  let  things  go  at 


84  CLERAMBAULT 

first,  without  committing  himself,  but  he  suffered,  passing 
through  agonies  something  like  those  of  Clerambault,  but 
with  a  different  result.  He  was  less  impulsive  and  more 
intellectual.  In  order  to  efface  his  last  scruples  he  hid 
them  under  close  reasoning,  and  with  the  aid  of  his  col- 
leagues he  laboriously  proved  by  a  -f-  b  that  war  was  the 
duty  of  consistent  pacifism.  His  League  had  every  advan- 
tage in  dwelling  on  the  criminal  acts  of  the  enemy ;  but  did 
not  dwell  on  those  in  its  own  camp.  Alexandre  Mignon  had 
occasional  glimpses  of  the  universal  injustice;  an  intolerable 
vision,  on  which  he  closed  his  shutters.  .    .    . 

In  proportion  as  he  was  swaddled  in  his  war  arguments, 
it  became  more  difficult  for  him  to  disentangle  himself,  and 
he  persisted  more  and  more.  Suppose  a  child  carelessly 
pulls  off  the  wing  of  an  insect;  it  is  only  a  piece  of  nervous 
awkwardness,  but  the  insect  is  done  for,  and  the  child 
ashamed  and  irritated,  tears  the  poor  creature  to  pieces  to 
relieve  his  own  feelings. 

The  pleasure  with  which  he  listened  to  Clerambault's 
mea  culpa  may  be  imagined;  but  the  effect  was  surprising. 
Mignon,  already  ill  at  ease,  turned  on  Clerambault,  whose 
self-accusations  seemed  to  point  at  him,  and  treated  him 
like  an  enemy.  In  the  sequel  no  one  was  more  violent  than 
Mignon  against  this  living  remorse. 

There  were  some  politicians  who  would  have  understood 
Clerambault  better,  for  they  knew  as  much  as  he  did  and 
perhaps  more;  but  it  did  not  keep  them  awake  at  night. 
They  had  been  used  to  mental  trickery  ever  since  they  cut 
their  first  teeth,  and  were  expert  at  combinazione ;  they 
had  the  illusion  of  serving  their  party,  cheaply  gained  by  a 
few  compromises  here  and  there!  ...  To  think  and  walk 
straightforwardly  was  the  one  thing  impossible  to  these 
flabby  shufflers,  who  backed,  or  advanced  in  spirals,  who 
dragged  their  banner  in  the  mud,  by  way  of  assuring  its 


CLERAMBAULT  85 

triumph,  and  who,  to  reach  the  Capitol,  would  have  crawled 
up  the  steps  on  their  stomachs. 

Here  and  there  some  clear-sighted  spirits  were  hidden, 
but  they  were  easier  to  guess  at  than  to  see;  they  were 
melancholy  glow-worms  who  had  put  out  their  lanterns  in 
their  fright,  so  that  not  a  gleam  was  visible.  They  cer- 
tainly had  no  faith  in  the  war,  but  neither  did  they  believe 
in  anything  against  it; — fatalists,  pessimists  all. 

It  was  clear  to  Clerambault  that  when  personal  energy 
is  lacking,  the  highest  qualities  of  head ,  and  heart  only 
increase  the  public  servitude.  The  stoicism  which  submits 
to  the  laws  of  the  universe  prevents  us  from  resisting  those 
which  are  cruel,  instead  of  saying  to  destiny:  "No,  thus 
far,  and  no  farther!  "  .  .  .  If  it  pushes  on  you  will  see 
the  stoic  stand  politely  aside,  as  he  miu-murs:  "  Please 
come  in!  " — Cultivated  heroism,  the  taste  for  the  super- 
human, even  the  inhuman,  chokes  the  soul  with  its  sacri- 
fices, and  the  more  absurd  they  are,  the  more  sublime 
they  appear — Christians  of  today,  more  generous  than 
their  Master,  render  all  to  Caesar;  a  cause  seems  sacred  to 
them  from  the  moment  that  they  are  asked  to  immolate 
themselves  to  it.  To  the  ignominy  of  war  they  piously 
kindle  the  flame  of  their  faith,  and  throw  their  bodies  on 
the  altar.  The  people  bend  their  backs,  and  accept  with 
a  passive,  ironic  resignation.  ..."  No  need  to  borrow 
trouble."  Ages  and  ages  of  misery  have  rolled  over  this 
stone,  but  in  the  end  stones  do  wear  down  and  become  mud. 


Clerambault  tried  to  talk  with  one  and  another  of 
these  people  but  found  himself  everywhere  opposed  by  the 
same  hidden,  half-unconscious  resistance.  They  were  armed 
with  the  will  not  to  hear,  or  rather  with  a  remarkable  not- 
will  to  hear.  Their  minds  were  as  impervious  to  contrary 
arguments  as  a  duck's  feathers  to  water.  Men  in  general 
are  endowed,  for  their  comfort,  with  a  precious  faculty; 
they  can  make  themselves  blind  and  deaf  when  it  does  not 
suit  them  to  see  and  hear,  and  when  by  chance  they  pick 
up  some  inconvenient  object,  they  drop  it  quickly,  and 
forget  it  as  soon  as  possible.  How  many  citizens  in  any 
country  knew  the  truth  about  the  divided  responsibility  for 
the  war,  or  about  the  ill-omened  part  played  by  their  poli- 
ticians, who,  themselves  deceived,  pretended  with  great  suc- 
cess to  be  ignorant! 

If  everyone  is  trying  to  escape  from  himself,  it  is  clear, 
that  a  man  will  run  faster  from  someone  who,  like  Cler- 
ambault, would  help  him  to  recover  himself.  In  order  to 
avoid  their  own  conscience,  intelligent,  serious,  honourable 
men  do  not  blush  to  employ  the  little  tricks  of  a  woman 
or  a  child  trying  to  get  its  own  way;  and  dreading  a  dis- 
cussion which  might  unsettle  them,  they  would  seize  on  the 
first  awkward  expression  used  by  Clerambault.  They  would 
separate  it  from  the  context,  dress  it  up  if  necessary,  and 
with  raised  voices  and  eyes  starting  from  their  heads,  feign 
an  indignation  which  they  ended  by  feeling  sincerely.  They 
would  repeat  "  mordicus,"  even  after  the  proof,  and  if 
obliged  to  admit  it,  would  rush  off,  banging  the  door  after 
them:  "  Can't  stand  any  more  of  that!  "  But  two,  or  per- 
haps ten  days  after,  they  would  come  back  and  renew  the 
argument,  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

86 


CLERAMBAULT  87 

Some  treacherous  ones  provoked  Clerambault  to  say 
more  than  he  intended,  and  having  gained  their  point,  ex- 
ploded with  rage.  But  even  the  most  good-natured  told 
bim  that  he  lacked  good  sense — "  good,"  of  course,  mean- 
ing "  my  way  of  thinking," 

There  were  the  clever  talkers  also  who,  having  nothing 
to  fear  from  a  contest  of  words,  began  an  argument  in  the 
flattering  hope  that  they  could  bring  the  wandering  sheep 
back  to  the  fold.  It  was  not  his  main  idea  that  they  dis- 
puted, so  much  as  its  desirability;  they  would  appeal  to 
Clerambault's  better  side: 

"  Certainly,  of  course,  I  think  as  you  do,  or  almost  as 
you  do;  I  understand  what  you  mean;  .  .  .  but  you  ought 
to  be  cautious,  my  dear  friend,  not  to  trouble  the  con- 
sciences of  those  who  have  to  fight.  You  cannot  always 
speak  the  truth,  at  least  not  all  at  once.  These  fine  things 
may  come  about  ...  in  fifty  years,  perhaps.  We  must 
wait  and  not  go  too  fast  for  nature  ..." 

"  Wait,  until  the  appetites  of  the  exploiter,  and  the  folly 
of  the  exploited  are  equally  exhausted?  When  the  thinking 
of  clear-sighted,  better  sort  gives  way  to  the  blindness  of 
coarser  minds,  it  goes  directly  contrary  to  that  nature  which 
it  professes  to  follow,  and  against  the  historical  destiny 
which  they  themselves  make  it  a  point  of  honour  to  obey. 
For  do  we  respect  the  plans  of  Nature  when  we  stifle  one 
part  of  its  thought,  and  the  higher,  at  that?  The  theory 
which  would  lop  off  the  strongest  forces  from  life,  and  bend 
it  before  the  passions  of  the  multitude,  would  result  in  sup- 
pressing the  advance-guard,  and  leaving  the  army  without 
leaders.  .  .  .  When  the  boat  leans  over,  must  I  not  throw 
my  weight  on  the  other  side  to  keep  an  even  keel?  Or 
must  we  all  sit  down  to  leeward?  Advanced  ideas  are 
Nature's  weights,  intended  to  counter-balance  the  heavy 
stubborn  past;  without  them  the  boat  will  upset.  .  .  .  The 
welcome  they  will  receive  is  a  side  issue.     Their  advo- 


88  CLERAMBAULT 

cates  can  expect  to  be  stoned,  but  whoever  has  these 
things  in  his  mind  and  does  not  speak  them,  is  a  dishon- 
oured man.  He  is  like  a  soldier  in  battle,  to  whom  a 
dangerous  message  is  entrusted;  is  he  free  to  shirk  it? 
.    ,    .  Why  does  not  everyone  understand  these  things?  " 

When  they  saw  that  persuasion  had  no  effect  on  Cler- 
ambault,  they  unmasked  their  batteries  and  violently  taxed 
him  with  absurd,  criminal  pride.  They  asked  him  if  he 
thought  himself  cleverer  than  anyone  else,  that  he  set  him- 
self up  against  the  entire  nation?  On  what  did  he  found  this 
overweening  self-confidence?  Duty  consists  in  being  hum- 
ble, and  keeping  to  one's  proper  place  in  the  community; 
when  it  commands,  our  duty  is  to  bow  to  it,  and,  whether 
we  agree  or  not,  we  must  carry  out  its  orders.  Woe  to  the 
rebel  against  the  soul  of  his  country!  To  be  in  the  right 
and  in  opposition  to  her  is  to  be  wrong,  and  in  the  hour 
of  action  wrong  is  a  crime.  The  Republic  demands  obedi- 
ence from  her  sons. 

"  The  Republic  or  death,"  said  Clerambault  ironically. 
"  And  this  is  a  free  country?  Free,  yes,  because  there  have 
always  been,  and  always  will  be  some  souls  like  mine,  which 
refuse  to  bend  to  a  yoke  which  their  conscience  disavows. 
We  are  become  a  nation  of  tyrants.  There  was  no  great 
advantage  in  taking  the  Bastille.  In  the  old  days  one  ran 
the  risk  of  perpetual  imprisonment  if  one  made  so  bold  as 
to  differ  from  the  Prince — the  fagot,  if  you  did  not  agree 
with  the  Church;  but  now  you  must  think  with  forty  mil- 
lions of  men  and  follow  them  in  their  frantic  contradic- 
tions. One  day  you  must  scream:  "  Down  with  England!  " 
Tomorrow  it  will  be:  "Down  with  Germany!  "  and  the 
next  day  it  may  be  the  turn  of  Italy;  and  da  capo  in  a  week 
or  two.  Today  we  acclaim  a  man  or  an  idea,  tomorrow 
we  shall  insult  him;  and  anyone  who  refuses  risks  dis- 
honour— or  a  pistol  bullet.  This  is  the  most  ignoble  and 
shameful  servitude  of  all!   .   .   .  By  what  right  do  a  hun- 


CLERAMBAULT  89 

dred,  a  thousand,  one  or  forty  millions  of  men,  demand 
that  I  shall  renounce  my  soul?  Each  of  them  has  one, 
like  mine.  Forty  millions  of  souls  together  often  make 
only  one,  which  has  denied  itself  forty  millions  of  times. 
...  I  think  what  I  think.  Go  you  and  do  likewise.  The 
living  truth  can  be  re-born  only  from  the  equilibrium  of 
opposing  thoughts.  To  make  the  citizen  respect  the  city, 
it  must  be  reciprocal;  each  has  his  soul.  It  is  his  right 
and  his  first  duty  is  to  be  true  to  it.  .  .  .1  have  no  illu- 
sions, and  in  this  world  of  prey  I  do  not  attribute  an  exag- 
gerated importance  to  my  own  conscience,  but  however 
small  we  may  be  or  little  we  may  do,  we  must  exist.  We 
are  all  liable  to  err,  but  deceived  or  not,  a  man  should  be 
sincere;  an  honest  mistake  is  not  a  lie,  but  a  stage  on  the 
road  to  truth.  The  real  lie  is  to  fear  the  truth  and  try  to 
stifle  it.  Even  if  you  were  a  thousand  times  right,  if  you 
resort  to  force  to  crush  a  sincere  mistake,  you  commit  the 
most  odious  crime  against  reason  itself.  If  reason  is  perse- 
cutor, and  error  persecuted,  I  am  for  the  victim,  for  error 
has  rights  as  well  as  truth.  .  .  .  Truth — the  real  truth,  is 
to  be  always  seeking  what  is  true,  and  to  respect  the  efforts 
of  those  who  suffer  in  the  pursuit.  If  you  insult  a  man 
who  is  striving  to  hew  out  his  path,  if  you  persecute  him 
who  wishes,  and  perhaps  fails,  to  find  less  inhuman  roads 
for  human  progress,  you  make  a  martyr  of  him.  Your  way 
is  the  best,  the  only  one,  you  say?  Follow  it  then,  and 
let  me  follow  mine.  I  do  not  oblige  you  to  come  with  me, 
so  why  are  you  angry?  Are  you  afraid  lest  I  should  prove 
to  be  in  the  right? 


The  impression  left  on  Clerambault's  mind  by  his  last 
interview  with  Perrotin,  was  one  of  sadness  and  pity;  but 
on  the  whole  he  decided  to  go  again  to  see  him,  having  by 
now  arrived  at  a  better  understanding  of  his  ironical  and 
prudent  attitude  towards  the  world.  If  he  had  retained  but 
small  esteem  for  Perrotin's  character,  on  the  other  hand  the 
great  intelligence  of  the  old  scholar  continued  to  command 
his  highest  admiration;  he  still  saw  in  him  a  guide  towards 
the  light. 

Perrotin  was  not  exactly  delighted  to  see  Clerambault 
again.  The  other  day  he  had  been  obliged  to  commit  a 
little  cowardly  act;  he  did  not  mind  that,  for  he  was  used  to 
it,  but  it  was  under  the  eyes  of  an  incorruptible  witness, 
and  he  was  too  clever  not  to  have  retained  a  disagreeable 
memory  of  the  incident.  He  foresaw  a  discussion,  and  he 
hated  to  discuss  with  people  who  had  convictions — there 
is  no  fun  in  it,  they  take  everything  so  seriously — ^how- 
ever, he  was  courteous,  weak,  good-natured,  and  unable  to 
refuse  when  anyone  attacked  him  vigorously.  He  tried  at 
first  to  avoid  serious  questions ;  but  when  he  saw  that  Cler- 
ambault really  needed  him,  and  that  perhaps  he  might  save 
him  from  some  imprudence,  he  consented,  with  a  sigh,  to 
give  up  his  morning. 

Clerambault  related  to  him  all  that  he  had  done,  and  the 
result.  He  realised  that  the  world  around  served  other 
gods  than  his;  for  he  had  shared  the  same  faith,  and  even 
now  was  impartial  enough  to  see  a  certain  grandeur  and 
beauty  in  it.  Since  these  last  trials,  however,  he  had  also 
seen  its  horror  and  absurdity;  he  had  abandoned  it  for  a 
new  ideal,  which  would  certainly  bring  him  into  conflict 
with  the  old.    With  brief  and  passionate  touches,  Cleram- 

90 


CLERAMBAULT  gr 

bault  explained  this  new  ideal,  and  called  on  Perrotin  to  say 
if  to  him  it  seemed  true  or  false;  entreating  his  friend  to 
lay  aside  considerations  of  tact  or  politeness,  to  speak 
clearly  and  frankly.  Struck  by  Clerambault's  tragic  earnest- 
ness, Perrotin  changed  his  tone,  and  answered  in  the  same 
key. 

"  It  amounts  to  this,  that  you  think  I  am  wrong?  "  asked 
Clerambault,  distressed.  "  I  see  that  I  am  alone  in  this, 
but  I  cannot  help  it.  Do  not  try  to  spare  me  now,  but 
tell  me,  am  I  wrong  to  think  as  I  do?  " 

"  No,  my  friend,"  relied  Perrotin  gravely,  "  you  are 
right." 

"  Then  you  agree  that  I  ought  to  fight  against  these  mur- 
derous mistakes?  " 

'*  Ah,  that  is  another  matter." 

"  Ought  I  to  betray  the  truth,  when  it  is  clear  to  me?  " 

"Truth,  my  poor  friend!  No,  don't  look  at  me  like 
that,  I  shall  not  follow  Pilate's  example,  and  ask:  What 
is  Truth?  Like  you,  and  longer  than  you  perhaps,  I  have 
loved  her.  But  Truth,  my  dear  Sir,  is  higher  than  you, 
than  I,  than  all  those  that  ever  have,  or  ever  will  inhabit 
the  earth.  We  may  believe  that  we  obey  the  Great  Goddess, 
but  in  fact  we  serve  only  the  Di  minores,  the  saints  in  the 
side  chapels,  alternately  adored  and  neglected  by  the  crowd. 
The  one  in  honour  of  whom  men  are  now  killing  and  muti- 
lating themselves  in  a  Corybantic  frenzy,  can  evidently  be 
no  longer  yours  nor  mine.  The  ideal  of  the  Country  is  a 
god,  great  and  cruel,  who  will  leave  to  the  future  the  image 
of  a  sort  of  bugaboo  Cronos,  or  of  his  Olympian  son 
whom  Christ  superseded.  Your  ideal  of  humanity  is  the 
highest  rung  of  the  ladder,  the  announcement  of  the  new 
god — who  will  be  dethroned  later  on  by  one  higher  still, 
who  will  embrace  more  of  the  universe.  The  ideal  and  life 
never  cease  to  evolve,  and  this  continual  advance  forms 
the  genuine  interest  of  the  world  to  the  liberal  mind;  but 


92  CLERAMBAULT 

if  the  mind  can  constantly  rise  without  rest  or  interruption, 
in  the  world  of  fact  progress  is  made  step  by  step,  and  a 
scant  few  inches  are  gained  in  the  whole  of  a  lifetime. 
Humanity  limps  along,  and  your  mistake,  the  only  one,  is 
that  you  are  two  or  three  days'  journey  ahead  of  it,  but — 
perhaps  with  good  reason — that  is  one  of  the  mistakes  most 
difficult  to  forgive.  When  an  ideal,  like  that  of  Country, 
begins  to  age  with  the  form  of  society  to  which  it  is  strongly 
bound,  the  slightest  attack  makes  it  ferocious,  and  it  will 
blaze  out  furiously  in  its  exasperation.  The  reason  is  that 
it  has  already  begun  to  doubt  itself.  Do  not  deceive  your- 
self; these  millions  of  men  who  are  slaughtering  each  other 
now  in  the  name  of  patriotism,  have  no  longer  the  early 
enthusiasm  of  1792^  or  18 13,  even  though  liere  is  more 
noise  and  ruin  today.  Many  of  those  who  die,  and  those 
who  send  them  to  their  death,  feel  in  their  hearts  the  hor- 
rible touch  of  doubt;  but  entangled  as  they  are,  too  weak 
to  escape,  or  even  to  imagine  a  way  of  salvation,  they 
proclaim  their  injured  faith  with  a  kind  of  despair,  and 
throw  themselves  blindly  into  the  abyss.  They  would  like 
to  throw  in  also  those  who  first  raised  doubts  in  them  by 
words  or  actions.  To  wish  to  destroy  the  dream  of  those 
who  are  dying  for  its  sake,  is  to  wish  to  kill  twice  over." 

Clerambault  held  out  his  hand  to  stop  him: — "Ah!  you 
have  no  need  to  tell  me  that,  and  it  tortures  me.  Do  you 
think  I  am  insensible  to  the  pain  of  these  poor  souls  whose 
faith  I  undermine?  Respect  the  beliefs  of  others;  offend 
not  one  of  these  little  ones.  .  .  .  My  God!  what  can  I 
do?  Help  me  to  get  out  of  this  dilemma;  shall  I  see  wrong 
done,  let  men  go  to  ruin, — or  risk  injuring  them,  wound 
their  faith,  draw  hatred  upon  myself  when  I  try  to  save 
them?  .   .   .  Show  me  the  law!  " 

"  Save  yourself." 

"  But  that  would  be  to  lose  myself,  if  the  price  is  the  life 
of  others,  if  we  do  nothing.    You  and  I,  no  effort  would  be 


CLERAMBAULT  93 

too  great, — the  ruin  of  Europe,  of  the  whole  world,  is 
imminent." 

Perrotin  sat  quietly,  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  his  chair, 
his  hands  folded  over  his  Buddha-like  belly.  He  twirled 
his  thumbs,  looking  kindly  at  Clerambault,  shook  his  head, 
and  replied:  "Your  generous  heart,  and  your  artistic  sen- 
sibilities urge  you  too  far,  my  friend,  but  fortunately  the 
world  is  not  near  its  end.  This  is  not  the  first  time.  And 
there  will  be  many  others.  What  is  happening  today  is 
painful,  certainly,  but  not  in  the  least  abnormal.  War  has 
never  kept  the  earth  from  turning  on  its  axis,  nor  prevented 
the  evolution  of  life;  it  is  even  one  of  the  forms  of  its  evo- 
lution. Let  an  old  scholar  and  philosopher  oppose  his  calm 
inhumanity  to  your  holy  Man  of  Sorrows.  In  spite  of  all 
it  may  bring  you  some  benefit.  This  struggle,  this  crisis 
which  alarms  you  so  much,  is  no  more  than  a  simple 
case  of  systole,  a  cosmic  contraction,  tumultuous,  but 
regulated,  like  the  folding  of  the  earth  crust  accompanied 
by  destructive  earthquakes.  Humanity  is  tightening.  And 
war  is  its  seismos.  Yesterday,  in  all  countries,  provinces 
were  at  war  with  each  other.  Before  that,  in  each  province, 
cities  fought  together.  Now  that  national  unity  has  been 
reached,  a  larger  unity  develops.  It  is  certainly  regrettable 
that  it  should  take  place  by  violence,  but  that  is  the  natural 
method.  Of  the  explosive  mixture  of  conflicting  elements 
in  conflict,  a  new  chemical  body  will  be  born.  Will  it  be 
in  the  East,  or  in  Europe?  I  cannot  tell;  but  surely  what 
results  will  have  new  properties,  more  valuable  than  its 
parts.  The  end  is  not  yet.  The  war  of  which  we  are  now 
witnesses  is  magnificent  ...  (I  beg  your  pardon;  I  mean 
magnificent  to  the  mind,  where  suffering  does  not  exist)  .  .  . 
Greater,  finer  conflicts  still  are  preparing.  These  poor 
childish  peoples  who  imagine  that  they  can  disturb  the 
peace  of  eternity  with  their  cannon  shots!  .  .  .  The  whole 
universe  must  first  pass  through  the  retort.    We  shall  have 


94  CLERAMBAULT 

a  war  between  the  two  Americas,  one  between  the  New 
World  and  the  Yellow  Continent,  then  the  conquerors  and 
the  rest  of  the  world.  .  ,  .  That  is  enough  to  fill  up  a  few 
centuries.  And  I  may  not  have  seen  all,  my  eyes  are  not 
very  good.  Naturally  each  of  these  shocks  will  lead  to 
social  struggles. 

"  It  will  all  be  accomplished  in  about  a  dozen  centuries. 
(I  am  rather  inclined  to  think  that  it  will  be  more  rapid 
than  it  seems  by  comparison  with  the  past,  for  the  move- 
ment becomes  accelerated  as  it  proceeds.)  No  doubt  we 
shall  arrive  at  a  rather  impoverished  synthesis,  for  many 
constituent  elements,  some  good,  some  bad,  will  be  destroyed 
in  the  process,  the  one  being  too  delicate  to  resist  the  hostile 
environment,  the  other  injurious  and  impossible  to  assimi- 
late. Then  we  shall  have  the  celebrated  United  States  of 
the  whole  world;  and  this  union  will  be  all  the  more 
solid,  because,  as  is  probable,  man  will  be  menaced  by  a 
common  danger.  The  canals  of  Mars,  the  drying-up  or 
cooling-off  of  the  planet,  some  mysterious  plague,  the 
pendulum  of  Poe,  in  short,  the  vision  of  an  inevitable  death 
overwhelming  the  human  race.  .  .  .  There  will  be  great 
things  to  behold!  The  Genius  of  the  race,  stretched  to  the 
uttermost,  in  its  last  agonies. 

"  There  will  be,  on  the  other  hand,  very  little  liberty ; 
human  multiplicity  when  near  its  end  will  fuse  itself  into  a 
Unity  of  Will.  Do  we  not  see  the  beginnings  already? 
Thus,  without  abrupt  mutations,  will  be  effected  the  re- 
integration of  the  complex  in  the  one,  of  old  Empedocles' 
Hatred  in  Love." 

"  And  what  then?  " 

"After  that?  A  rest,  and  then  it  will  all  begin  over 
again,  there  can  be  no  doubt.  A  young  cycle.  The  new 
Kalpa.  The  world  will  turn  once  more,  on  the  re-forged 
wheel." 


CLERAMBAULT  95 

"  And  what  is  the  answer  to  the  riddle?  " 

"The  Hindoos  would  tell  you  Siva.  Siva,  who  creates 
and  destroys;  destroys  and  creates." 

"  What  a  hideous  dream." 

"  That  is  an  affair  of  temperament.  Wisdom  liberates. 
To  the  Hindoos,  Buddha  is  the  deliverer.  As  for  me, 
curiosity  is  a  sufficient  reward." 

"  It  would  not  be  enough  for  me,  and  I  cannot  content 
myself  either  with  the  wisdom  of  a  selfish  Buddha,  who 
sets  himself  free  by  deserting  the  rest.  I  know  the  Hindoos 
as  you  do,  and  I  love  them,  but  even  among  them,  Buddha 
has  not  said  the  last  word  of  wisdom.  Do  you  remember 
that  Bodhisattva,  the  Master  of  Pity,  who  swore  not  to  be- 
come Buddha,  never  to  find  freedom  in  Nirvana,  until  he  had 
cured  all  pain,  redeemed  all  crimes,  consoled  all  sorrows?  " 

Perrotin  smiled  and  patted  Clerambault's  hand  affection- 
ately as  he  looked  at  his  troubled  face. 

"  Dear  old  Bodhisattva,"  he  said,  "  what  do  you  want 
to  do?    And  whom  would  you  save?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  well  enough,"  said  Clerambault,  hanging 
his  head.  "  I  know  how  small  I  am,  how  little  I  can  do, 
the  weakness  of  my  wishes  and  protestations.  Do  not  think 
me  so  vain ;  but  how  can  I  help  it,  if  I  feel  it  is  my  duty  to 
speak?  " 

"Your  duty  is  to  do  what  is  right  and  reasonable;  not 
to  sacrifice  yourself  in  vain." 

"  Do  you  certainly  know  what  is  in  vain?  Can  you  tell 
beforehand  which  seed  will  germinate  and  which  will  turn 
out  sterile  and  perish?  But  you  sow  seed  nevertheless. 
What  progress  would  ever  have  been  made,  if  those  who  bore 
the  germ  of  it  had  stopped  terrified  before  the  enormous 
mass  of  accumulated  routine  which  hung  ready  to  crush 
them,  above  their  heads." 

"I  admit  that  a  scholar  is  bound  to  defend  the  Truth 


96  CLERAMBAULT 

that  he  has  discovered,  but  is  this  social  question  your  mis- 
sion? You  are  a  poet;  keep  to  your  dreams,  and  may  they 
prove  a  defence  to  you!  " 

"  Before  considering  myself  as  a  poet,  I  consider  myself 
as  a  man,  and  every  honest  man  has  a  mission." 

"  A  mind  like  yours  is  too  precious  and  valuable  to  be 
sacrificed,  it  would  be  murder." 

"  Yes,  you  are  willing  to  sacrifice  people  who  have  little 
to  lose."  He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  went 
on: 

"  Perrotin,  I  have  often  thought  that  we,  men  of  thought, 
artists,  all  of  us,  we  do  not  live  up  to  our  obligations.  Not 
only  now,  but  for  a  long  time,  perhaps  always.  We  are 
custodians  of  the  portion  of  Truth  that  is  in  us,  a  little 
light,  which  we  have  prudently  kept  for  ourselves.  More 
than  once  this  has  troubled  me,  but  I  shut  my  eyes  to  it 
then;  now  they  have  been  unsealed  by  suffering.  We  are 
the  privileged  ones,  and  that  lays  duties  upon  us  which 
we  have  not  fulfilled;  we  are  afraid  of  compromising  our- 
selves. There  is  an  aristocracy  of  the  mind,  which  claims 
to  succeed  to  that  of  blood ;  but  it  forgets  that  the  privileges 
of  the  old  order  were  first  purchased  with  blood.  For  ages 
mankind  has  listened  to  words  of  wisdom,  but  it  is  rare  to 
see  the  wise  men  offer  themselves  as  a  sacrifice,  though  it 
would  do  no  harm  if  the  world  should  see  some  of  them 
stake  their  lives  on  their  doctrines,  as  in  the  heroic  days. 
Sacrifice  is  the  condition  of  fecundity.  To  make  others 
believe,  you  must  believe  first  yourself,  and  prove  it.  Men 
do  not  see  a  truth  simply  because  it  exists,  it  must  have 
the  breath  of  life;  and  this  spirit  which  is  ours,  we  can 
and  ought  to  give.  If  not,  our  thoughts  are  only  amuse- 
ments of  dilettanti — a  play,  which  deserves  only  a  little 
applause.  Men  who  advance  the  history  of  the  world  make 
stepping-stones  of  their  own  lives.  How  much  higher  than 
all  our  great  men  was  the  Son  of  the  carpenter  of  Galilee. 


CLERAMBAULT  97 

Humanity   knows   the  difference   between   them  and   the 
Saviour." 

"  But  did  He  save  it? 

*  When  Jahveh  speaks:  "  'Tis  my  desire," 
His  people  work  to  feed  the  fire.' " 

"  Your  circle  of  flame  is  the  last  terror,  and  Man  exists 
only  to  break  through,  that  he  may  come  out  of  it  free." 

"  Free?  "  repeated  Perrotin  with  his  quiet  smile. 

"  Yes,  free!  It  is  the  highest  good,  but  few  reach  it,  al- 
though the  name  is  common  enough.  It  is  as  exceptional 
as  real  beauty,  or  real  goodness.  By  a  free  man  I  mean 
one  who  can  liberate  himself  from  himself,  his  passions,  his 
blind  instincts,  those  of  his  surroundings,  or  of  the  moment. 
It  is  said  that  he  does  this  in  obedience  to  the  voice  of 
reason;  but  reason  in  the  sense  that  you  give  it,  is  a 
mirage.  It  is  only  another  passion,  hardened,  intellectual- 
ised,  and  therefore  fanatical.  No,  he  must  put  himself  out 
of  sight,  in  order  to  get  a  clear  view  over  the  clouds  of  dust 
raised  by  the  flock  on  the  road  of  today,  to  take  in  the 
whole  horizon,  so  as  to  put  events  in  their  proper  place  in 
the  scheme  of  the  universe." 

"  Then,"  said  Perrotin,  "  he  must  accommodate  himself 
to  the  laws  of  that  universe." 

"  Not  necessarily,"  said  Clerambault,  "  he  can  oppose 
them  with  a  clear  conscience  if  they  are  contrary  to  right 
and  happiness.  Liberty  consists  in  that  very  thing,  that 
a  free  man  is  in  himself  a  conscious  law  of  the  universe, 
a  counter-balance  to  the  crushing  machine,  the  automaton 
of  Spitteler,  the  bron/e  Anankc.  I  see  the  universal  Being, 
three  parts  of  him  still  embedded  in  the  clay,  the  bark,  or 
the  stone,  undergoing  the  implacable  laws  of  the  matter  in 
which  he  is  encrusted.  His  breath  and  his  eyes  alone  are 
free;  "I  hope,"  says  his  look.    And  his  breath  declares, 


98  CLERAMBAULT 

"  I  will!  "  With  the  help  of  these  he  struggles  to  release 
himself.  We  are  the  look  and  the  breath,  that  is  what 
makes  a  free  man." 

"  The  look  is  enough  for  me,"  said  Perrotin  gently. 

"  And  without  the  breath  I  should  diel  "  exclaimed 
Clerambault. 


In  a  man  of  thought  there  is  a  wide  interval  between  the 
word  and  the  deed.  Even  when  a  thing  is  decided  upon, 
he  finds  pretexts  for  putting  it  off  to  another  day,  for  he 
sees  only  too  clearly  what  will  follow;  what  pains  and 
troubles.  And  to  what  end?  In  order  to  calm  his  restless 
soul  he  pours  out  a  flood  of  energetic  language  on  his  in- 
timate friends,  or  to  himself  alone,  and  in  this  way  gains 
the  illusion  of  action  cheaply  enough.  In  the  bottom  of  his 
heart  he  does  not  believe  in  it,  but  like  Hamlet,  he  waits 
till  circumstances  shall  force  his  hand. 

Clerambault  was  brave  enough  when  he  was  talking  to 
the  indulgent  Perrotin,  but  he  had  scarcely  got  home  when 
he  was  seized  again  by  his  hesitations.  Sharpened  by  his 
sorrow,  his  sensitiveness  anticipated  the  emotions  of  those 
around  him;  he  imagined  the  discord  that  his  words  would 
cause  between  himself  and  his  wife,  and  worse,  without 
exactly  knowing  why,  he  was  not  sure  of  his  daughter's 
sympathy,  and  shrank  from  the  trial.  The  risk  was  too 
great  for  an  affectionate  heart  like  his. 

Matters  stood  thus,  when  a  doctor  of  his  acquaintance 
wrote  that  he  had  a  man  dangerously  wounded  in  his  hos- 
pital who  had  been  in  the  great  Champagne  offensive,  and 
had  known  Maxime.    Clerambault  went  at  once  to  see  him. 

On  the  bed  he  saw  a  man  who  might  have  been  of  any 
age.  He  lay  still  on  his  back,  swathed  like  a  mummy,  his 
thin  peasant-face  all  wrinkled  and  brown,  with  the  big 
nose  and  grey  beard  emerging  from  the  white  bandages. 
Outside  the  sheet  you  could  see  his  right  hand,  rough  and 
work-worn;  a  joint  of  the  middle-finger  was  missing — but 
that  did  not  matter,  it  was  a  peace  injury.    His  eyes  looked 

99 


100  CLERAMBAULT 

out  calmly  under  the  bushy  eyebrows;  their  clear  grey 
light  was  unexpected  in  the  burned  face. 

Clerambault  came  close  and  asked  him  how  he  did,  and 
the  man  thanked  him  politely,  without  giving  details,  as  if 
it  were  not  worth  the  trouble  to  talk  about  oneself, 

"  You  are  very  good,  Sir.  I  am  getting  on  all  right,"  But 
Clerambault  persisted  affectionately,  and  it  did  not  take 
long  for  the  grey  eyes  to  see  that  there  was  something 
deeper  than  curiosity  in  the  blue  eyes  that  bent  over  him. 

"  Where  are  you  wounded?  "  asked  Clerambault. 

"  Oh,  a  little  of  everywhere;  it  would  take  too  long  to 
tell  you,  Sir."    But  as  his  visitor  continued  to  press  him: 

"  There  is  a  wound  wherever  they  could  find  a  place. 
Shot  up,  all  over.  I  never  should  have  thought  there  would 
have  been  room  enough  on  a  little  man  like  me." 

Clerambault  found  out  at  last  that  he  had  received  about 
a  score  of  wounds ;  seventeen,  to  be  exact.  He  had  been  lit- 
erally sprinkled — he  called  it  "  interlarded  " — with  shrapnel. 

"Wounded  in  seventeen  places!  "  cried  Clerambault. 

"  I  have  only  a  dozen  left,"  said  the  man. 

"  Did  they  cure  the  others?  " 

"  No,  they  cut  my  legs  off,"  Clerambault  was  so  shocked 
that  he  almost  forgot  the  object  of  his  visit.  Great  Heaven! 
What  agonies!  Our  sufferings,  in  comparison,  are  a  drop 
in  the  ocean.  .  .  .  He  put  his  hand  over  the  rough  one, 
and  pressed  it.  The  calm  grey  eyes  took  in  Clerambault 
from  his  feet  to  the  crape  on  his  hat. 

"  You  have  lost  someone?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Clerambault,  pulling  himself  together,  "  you 
must  have  known  Sergeant  Clerambault?  " 

"  Surely,"  said  the  man,  "  I  knew  him." 

"  He  was  my  son." 

The  grey  eyes  softened. 

"Ah,  Sir!  I  am  sorry  for  you.  I  should  think  I  did 
know  him,  poor  little  chap!     We  were  together  for  nearly 


CLERAMBAULT  loi 

a  year,  and  a  year  like  that  counts,  I  can  tell  youl  Day 
after  day,  we  were  like  moles  burrowing  in  the  same  hole. 
.   .   .  We  had  our  share  of  trouble." 

"  Did  he  suffer  much?  " 

"Well,  Sir,  it  was  pretty  bad  sometimes;  hard  on  the 
boy,  just  at  the  first.  You  see  he  wasn't  used  to  it, 
like  us." 

"  You  come  from  the  country?  " 

"  I  was  labourer  on  a  farm.  You  have  to  live  with  the 
beasts,  and  you  get  to  be  like  'em.  But  it  is  the  truth  I 
tell  you  now.  Sir,  that  men  do  treat  each  other  worse  than 
the  beasts.  '  Be  kind  to  the  animals.'  That  was  on  a 
notice  a  joker  stuck  up  in  our  trench.  .  .  .  But  what  isn't 
good  enough  for  them  is  good  enough  for  us.  Ail  right; 
I'm  not  kicking.  Things  are  like  that.  We  have  to  take  it 
as  it  comes.  But  you  could  see  that  the  little  Sergeant  had 
never  been  up  against  it  before;  the  rain  and  the  mud,  and 
the  meanness;  the  dirt  worst  of  all,  everything  that  you 
touch,  your  food,  your  skin,  full  of  vermin.  ...  He  came 
close  to  crying,  I  could  see,  once  or  twice,  when  he  was 
new  to  it.  I  wouldn't  let  on  that  I  noticed,  for  the  boy 
was  proud,  didn't  want  any  help,  but  I  would  jolly  him, 
try  to  cheer  him  up,  lend  him  a  hand  sometimes;  he  was 
glad  to  get  it.  You  see  you  have  to  get  together.  But 
before  long  he  could  stick  it  out  as  well  as  anybody;  then 
it  was  his  turn  to  help  me.  I  never  heard  him  squeal,  and 
we  had  gay  times  together — must  have  a  joke  now  and 
then,  no  matter  what  happens.     It  keeps  off  bad  luck." 

Clerambault  sat  and  listened  with  a  heavy  heart. 

"Was  he  happier  towards  the  last?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  Sir,  I  think  he  was  what  you  call  resigned,  just  like 
we  all  were.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  you  all  seem  to 
sTart  out  with  the  same  foot  in  the  morning.  We  are  all 
different,  but  somehow,  after  a  while  it  seems  as  if  we  were 
growing  alike.    It's  better,  too,  that  way.    You  don't  mind 


102  CLERAMBAULT 

things  so  mucH  all  in  a  bunch.  .  .  .  It's  only  when  you 
get  leave,  and  after  you  come  back — it's  bad,  nothing  goes 
right  any  more.  You  ought  to  have  seen  the  little  Sergeant 
that  last  time." 

Clerambault  felt  a  pang  as  he  said  quickly: 

"  When  he  came  back?  " 

"  He  was  very  low.  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  saw  him 
so  bad  before." 

An  agonised  expression  came  over  Clerambault's  face,  and 
at  his  gesture,  the  wounded  man  who  had  been  looking  at 
the  ceiling  while  he  talked,  turned  his  eyes  and  understood, 
for  he  added  at  once: 

"  He  pulled  himself  together  again,  after  that." 

"  Tell  me  what  he  said  to  you,  tell  me  everything,"  said 
Clerambault  again  taking  his  hand. 

The  sick  man  hesitated  and  answered. 

"  I  don't  think  I  just  remember  what  he  said."  Then 
he  shut  his  eyes,  and  lay  still,  while  Clerambault  bent  over 
him  and  tried  to  see  what  was  before  those  eyes  under  their 
closed  lids. 

An  icy  moonless  night.  From  the  bottom  of  the  hollow 
boyau  one  could  see  the  cold  sky  and  the  fixed  stars.  Bul- 
lets rattled  on  the  hard  ground.  Maxime  and  his  friend  sat 
huddled  up  in  the  trench,  smoking  with  their  chins  on  their 
knees.  The  lad  had  come  back  that  day  from  Paris.  He 
was  depressed,  would  not  answer  questions,  shut  himself  up 
in  a  sulky  silence.  The  other  had  left  him  all  the  after- 
noon to  bear  his  trouble  alone.  Now  here  in  the  darkness 
he  felt  that  the  moment  had  come,  and  sat  a  little  closer, 
for  he  knew  that  the  boy  would  speak  of  his  own  accord. 
A  bullet  over  their  heads  glanced  off,  knocking  down  a 
lump  of  frozen  turf. 

"  Hullo,  old  gravedigger,"  said  the  other,  "  don't  get  too 
fresh." 


CLERAMBAULT  103 

"  Might  as  well  make  an  end  of  it  now,"  said  Maxime. 
"  That's  what  they  all  seem  to  want." 

"  Give  the  boche  your  skin  for  a  present?  I'll  say  you're 
generous!  " 

"  It's  not  only  the  boches ;  they  all  have  a  hand  in  it." 

"Who,  all?" 

'*  All  of  them  back  there  where  I  come  from,  in  Paris, 
friends  and  relations;  the  people  on  the  other  side  of  the 
grave,  the  live  ones. — As  for  us,  we  are  as  good  as  dead." 

In  the  long  silence  that  followed  they  could  hear  the 
scream  of  a  shell  across  the  sky.  Maxime's  comrade  blew 
out  a  mouthful  of  smoke.  "  Well,  youngster,"  he  said,  "  it 
didn't  go  right,  back  there  this  time,  did  it? — I  guessed 
as  much!  " 

"  I  don't  know  why." 

"  When  one  is  hurt,  and  the  other  isn't,  they  haven't 
much  to  say  to  one  another." 

"Oh,  they  suffer  too." 

"  Not  the  same.  You  can't  make  a  man  know  what  a 
toothache  is  unless  he  feels  it.  Can't  be  done.  Go  to  them 
all  snuggled  up  in  their  beds,  and  make  them  understand 
how  it  is  out  here!  .  .  .  It's  nothing  new  to  me.  I 
didn't  have  to  wait  for  the  war.  Always  have  lived  like 
this.  But  do  you  believe  when  I  was  working  in  the  soil, 
sweating  all  the  fat  off  my  bones,  that  any  of  them  bothered 
their  heads  about  me?  I  don't  mean  that  there's  any  harm 
in  them,  nor  much  good,  either,  but  like  anybody  else,  they 
don't  see  how  it  is.  To  understand  a  thing  properly  you've 
got  to  take  hold  of  it  yourself,  take  the  work,  and  the 
hurt.  If  not,  and  that's  what  it  is,  you  know — might  as 
well  make  up  your  mind — no  use  trying  to  explain.  That's 
the  way  things  are,  and  we  can't  do  anything  about  it." 

"  Life  would  not  be  worth  living,  if  it  were  as  bad  as 
that." 

"Why  not,  by  gosh?     I've  stuck  it  out  all  this  time, 


I04  CLERAMBAULT 

and  you're  just  as  good  as  me,  better,  because  youVe  got 
more  brains  and  can  learn.  That's  the  way  to  get  on,  the 
harder  it  is  the  more  it  teaches  you.  And  then  when  you're 
together,  like  us  here,  and  things  are  rocky,  it's  not  a 
pleasure,  exactly,  but  it  ain't  all  pain.  The  worst  is  to  be 
off  by  yourself;  and  you're  not  lonesome,  are  you,  boy?  " 
Maxime  looked  him  in  the  face,  as  he  answered: 
"  I  was  back  there,  but  I  don't  feel  it  here  with  you." 

The  man  who  lay  on  the  bed  said  nothing  of  what  had 
been  passing  before  his  closed  eyes.  He  turned  them  tran- 
quilly on  the  father,  whose  agonised  look  seemed  to  implore 
him  to  speak.  And  then,  with  an  awkward  kindness,  he 
tried  to  explain  that  if  the  boy  was  down-hearted  it  was 
probably  because  he  had  just  left  home,  but  they  had 
cheered  him  up  as  well  as  they  could;  they  knew  how  he 
felt.  He  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  have  a  father 
himself,  but  when  he  was  a  kid  he  used  to  think  what  luck 
it  would  be  to  have  one,  .  .  .  "  So  I  thought  I  might  try. 
I  spoke  to  him.  Sir,  like  you  would  yourself,  .  .  .  and 
he  soon  quieted  down.  He  said,  all  the  same,  there  was 
one  thing  we  got  out  of  this  blooming  war ;  that  there  were 
lots  of  poor  devils  in  the  world  who  don't  know  each  other, 
but  are  all  made  alike.  Sometimes  we  call  'em  our 
brothers,  in  sermons  and  places  like  that,  but  no  one  takes 
much  stock  in  it.  If  you  want  to  know  it's  true,  you  have 
to  slave  together  like  us —    He  kissed  me  then,  Sir." 

Clerambault  rose,  and  bending  over  the  bandaged  face, 
kissed  the  wounded  man's  rough  cheek. 

"  Tell  me  something  that  I  can  do  for  you,"  he  said. 

"  You  are  very  good.  Sir,  but  there's  not  much  you  can 
do  now.  I  am  so  used  up.  No  legs,  and  a  broken  arm. 
I'm  no  good, — what  could  I  work  at?  Besides,  it's  not  sure 
yet  that  I  shall  pull  through.    We'll  have  to  leave  it  at 


CLERAMBAULT  105 

that.  If  I  go  out,  good-bye.  If  not,  can't  do  anything  but 
wait.    There  are  plenty  of  trains." 

As  Clerambault  admired  his  patience,  he  repeated  his 
refrain:  "  I've  got  the  habit.  There's  no  merit  in  being 
patient  when  there's  nothing  else  to  do.  .  .  .A  little  more 
or  less,  what  does  it  matter?  .  .  .  It's  like  life,  this  war  is." 

Clerambault  saw  that  in  his  egotism  he  had  asked  the 
man  nothing  about  himself.  He  did  not  even  know  his 
name. 

"  My  name?  It's  a  good  fit  for  me, — Courtois  Aime  is 
what  they  call  me — Aime,  that's  the  Christian  name,  fine 
for  an  unlucky  fellow  like  me,  and  Courtois  on  the  top  of 
it.  Queer  enough,  isn't  it?  .  .  .1  never  had  a  family, 
came  out  of  an  Orphan  Asylum;  my  foster-father,  a  farmer 
down  in  Champagne,  offered  to  bring  me  up;  and  you 
can  bet  he  did  it!  I  had  all  the  training  I  wanted;  but 
anyhow  it  learned  me  what  I  had  to  expect.  I've  had  all 
that  was  coming  to  me!  " 

Thereupon  he  told  in  a  few  brief  dry  phrases,  without 
emotion,  of  the  series  of  bad  luck  which  had  made  up  his 
life.  Marriage  with  a  girl  as  poor  as  himself — "  hunger 
wedding  thirst,"  as  they  say,  sickness  and  death,  the 
struggle  with  nature, — it  would  not  be  so  bad  if  men  would 
only  help.  .  .  .  Homo,  homini  .  .  .  homo.  ...  All  the 
social  injustice  weighs  on  the  under  dog.  As  he  listened 
Qerambault  could  not  keep  down  his  indignation,  but 
Aime  Courtois  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course;  that's  the  way 
it  always  has  been,  and  always  will  be;  some  are  born  to 
suffer,  others  not.  You  can't  have  mountains  without  val- 
leys. The  war  seemed  perfectly  idiotic  to  him,  but  he 
would  not  have  lifted  a  finger  to  prevent  it.  He  had  in 
his  way  the  fatalist  passivity  of  the  people,  which  hides 
itself,  on  Gallic  soil,  behind  a  veil  of  ironic  carelessness. 
The  "  no  use  in  getting  in  a  sweat  about  it,"  of  the  trenches. 


io6  CLERAMBAULT 

Then  there  is  also  that  false  pride  of  the  French,  who  fear 
nothing  so  much  as  ridicule,  and  would  risk  death  twenty 
times  over  for  something  they  know  to  be  absurd,  rather 
than  be  laughed  at  for  an  act  of  unusual  common-sense. 
"  You  might  as  well  try  to  stop  the  lightning  as  talk  against 
war."  When  it  hails  there  is  nothing  to  do  but  to  cover 
over  your  cold-frames  if  you  can,  and  when  it's  over  go 
round  and  see  how  much  is  left  of  your  crop.  And  they 
will  keep  on  doing  this  until  the  next  hailstorm,  the  next 
war,  to  the  end  of  time.  "  No  use  getting  in  a  sweat." 
...  It  would  never  occur  to  them  that  Man  can  change 
Man. 

This  stupid  heroic  resignation  irritated  Clerambault  pro- 
foundly. The  upper  classes  are  charmed  with  it,  no  doubt, 
for  they  owe  their  existence  to  it, — but  it  makes  a 
Danaid's  sieve  of  the  human  race,  and  its  age-long  effort, 
since  all  its  courage,  its  virtues,  and  its  labours,  are  spent 
in  learning  how  to  die.  .  .  .  But  when  he  looked  at  the 
fragment  of  a  man  before  him,  his  heart  was  pierced  with 
an  infinite  pity.  What  could  this  wretched  man  do, 
symbol  as  he  was,  of  the  mutilated,  sacrificed  people? 
For  so  many  centuries  he  has  bled  and  suffered  under  our 
eyes,  while  we,  his  more  fortunate  brothers,  have  only  en- 
couraged him  to  persevere,  throwing  him  some  careless 
word  of  praise  from  a  distance,  which  cost  us  nothing. 
What  help  have  we  ever  given  him?  Nothing  at  all  in 
action,  and  little  enough  in  words.  We  owe  to  his  sacrifices 
the  leisure  to  think;  but  all  the  fruit  of  our  thought  we 
have  kept  for  ourselves;  we  have  not  given  him  a  taste  of 
it.  We  are  afraid  of  the  light,  of  impudent  opinion  and  the 
rulers  of  the  hour  who  call  to  us  saying:  "  Put  it  out!  You 
who  have  the  Light,  hide  it,  if  you  wish  to  be  par- 
doned. ..."  Oh,  let  us  be  cowards  no  more.  For  who 
will  speak,  if  we  do  not?  The  others  are  gagged  and  must 
die  without  a  word. 


CLERAMBAULT  107 

A  wave  of  pain  passed  over  the  features  of  the  wounded 
man.  With  eyes  fixed  on  the  ceiling,  his  big  mouth  twisted, 
his  teeth  obstinately  clenched,  he  could  say  no  more. — 
Clerambault  went  away,  his  mind  was  made  up.  The 
silence  of  this  soldier  on  his  bed  of  agony  had  brought  him 
to  a  decision.    He  would  speak. 


PART  THREE 


Clerambabult  came  back  from  the  hospital,  shut  him- 
self into  his  room,  and  began  to  write.  His  wife  tried  to 
come  in,  to  discover  what  he  was  doing;  it  seemed  as  if 
the  good  woman  had  a  suspicion,  an  intuition,  rare  with 
her,  which  gave  her  a  sort  of  obscure  fear  of  what  her  hus- 
band might  be  about  to  do,  but  he  succeeded  in  keeping 
her  away  imtil  he  had  finished.  Ordinarily  not  a  line  of  his 
was  spared  to  his  family;  it  was  a  pleasure  to  his  simple- 
hearted,  affectionate  vanity,  and  a  duty  towards  their  love 
also,  which  none  of  them  would  have  neglected.  This  time, 
however,  he  did  neglect  it,  for  reasons  which  he  would  not 
admit  to  himself,  for  though  he  was  far  from  imagining 
the  consequences  of  his  act,  he  was  afraid  of  their  objec- 
tions, he  did  not  feel  sure  enough  to  expose  himself  to 
them,  and  so  preferred  to  confront  them  with  the  accom- 
plished fact. 

His  first  word  was  a  cry  of  self-accusation: 

"  FORGIVE  US,  YE  DEAD!  " 

This  public  confession  began  with  an  inscription;  a 
musical  phrase  of  David's  lament  over  the  body  of  his  son 
Absalom: 

"  Oh!  Absalom  my  son,  my  son  I " 

I  had  a  son  whom  I  loved,  and  sent  to  his  death.  You 
Fathers  of  mourning  Europe,  millions  of  fathers,  widowed 
of  your  sons,  enemies  or  friends,  I  do  not  speak  for  myself 
only,  but  for  you  who  are  stained  with  their  blood  even  as 
I  am.  You  all  speak  by  the  voice  of  one  of  you, — my  un- 
happy voice  full  of  sorrow  and  repentance. 

My  son  died,  for  yours,  by  yours. — How  can  I  tell? — 

III 


112  CLERAMBAULT 

like  yours.  I  laid  the  blame  on  the  enemy,  and  on  the  war, 
as  you  must  also  have  done,  but  I  see  now  that  the  chief 
criminal,  the  one  whom  I  accuse,  is  myself.  Yes,  I  am 
guilty;  and  that  means  you,  and  all  of  us.  You  must 
listen  while  I  tell  you  what  you  know  well  enough,  but  do 
not  want  to  hear. 

My  son  was  twenty  years  old  when  he  fell  in  this  war. 
Twenty  years  I  had  loved  him,  protected  him  from  hunger, 
cold,  and  sickness;  saved  him  from  darkness  of  mind,  igno- 
rance, error,  and  all  the  pitfalls  that  lie  in  the  shadows  of 
life.  But  what  did  I  do  to  defend  him  against  this  scourge 
which  was  coming  upon  us? 

I  was  never  one  of  those  who  compounded  with  the  pas- 
sions of  jealous  nationalities.  I  loved  men,  and  their  future 
brotherhood  was  a  joy  to  me.  Why  then  did  I  do  nothing 
against  the  impending  danger,  against  the  fever  that  brooded 
within  us,  against  the  false  peace  which  mude  ready  to  kill 
with  a  smile  on  its  lips? 

I  was  perhaps  afraid  to  displease  others,  afraid  of 
enmities;  it  is  true  I  cared  too  much  to  love,  above  all 
to  be  loved.  I  feared  to  lose  the  good-will  of  those  around 
me,  however  feeble  and  insipid  such  a  feeling  may  be.  It 
is  a  sort  of  play  acted  by  ourselves  and  others..  No  one 
is  deceived  by  it,  since  both  sides  shrink  from  the  word 
which  might  crack  the  plaster  and  bring  the  house  about 
our  ears.  There  is  an  inward  equivocation  which  fears 
to  see  clearly  in  itself,  wants  to  make  the  best  of  every- 
thing, to  reconcile  old  instincts  aiul  new  beliefs,  rrmtually 
destructive  forces,  like  the  ideas  of  Country  and  Hu- 
manity, War  and  Peace.  .  .  .  We  are  not  sure  which 
side  to  take;  we  lean  first  one  way  and  then  the  other, 
like  a  see-saw;  afraid  of  the  effort  needed  to  conie  to  a 
decision  and  choose.  What  slothful  cowardice  *is  here! 
All  whitewashed  over  with  a  comfortable  faith  in  the  good- 
ness of  things,  which  will,  we  think,  settle  themselves.    And 


CLERAMBAULT  113 

we  continue  to  look  on,  and  glorify  the  impeccable  course 
of  Destiny,  paying  court  to  blind  Force. 

Failing  us,  other  things — and  other  men — have  chosen; 
and  not  till  then  did  we  understand  our  mistake,  but  it  was 
so  dreadful  to  admit  it,  and  we  were  so  unaccustomed  to  be 
honest,  that  we  acted  as  if  we  were  in  sympathy  with  the 
crime.  In  proof  of  this  sympathy  we  have  given  up  our 
own  sons  whom  we  love  with  all  our  hearts,  more  than  life — 
if  we  could  but  give  our  lives  for  theirs! — but  not  more 
than  our  pride,  with  which  we  try  to  veil  the  moral  con- 
fusion, the  empty  darkness  of  mind  and  heart. 

We  will  say  nothing  of  those  who  still  believe  in  the  old 
idol;  grim,  envious,  blood  bespattered  as  she  is — the  bar- 
barous Country.  These  kill,  sacrificing  themselves  and 
others,  but  at  least  they  know  what  they  do.  But  what  of 
those  who  have  ceased  to  believe  {like  me,  alas!  and  you)? 
Their  sons  are  sacrificed  to  a  lie,  for  if  you  assert  what  you 
doubt,  it  is  a  falsehood,  and  they  offer  up  their  oimi  children 
to  prove  this  lie  to  themselves ;  and  now  that  our  beloved 
have  died  for  it,  far  from  confessing  it,  we  hide  our  heads 
still  deeper  not  to  see  what  we  have  done.  After  our  sons 
wUl  come  others,  all  the  others,  offered  up  for  our  untruth. 

I  for  my  part  can  bear  it  no  longer,  when  I  think  of  those 
who  still  live.  Does  it  soothe  my  pain  to  inflict  injury  on 
others?  Am  I  a  savage  of  Homer's  time  that  I  should  be- 
lieve that  the  sorrow  of  my  dead  son  will  be  appeased,  and 
his  craving  for  light  satisfied,  if  I  sprinkle  the  earth  which 
covers  him  with  the  blood  of  other  men's  sons? — .Are  we  at 
that  stage  still? — No,  each  new  murder  kills  my  son  again, 
and  heaps  the  heavy  mud  of  crime  over  his  grave.  He  was 
the  future;  if  I  would  save  the  future,  I  must  save  him  also, 
and  rescue  fathers  to  come  from  the  agony  tftat  I  endure. 
Come  then,  and  help  me!  Cast  out  these  falsehoods! 
Surely  it  is  not  for  our  sokes  that  men  wage  these  combats 
between  nations,  this  universal  brigandage?    What  good  is 


114  CLERAMBAULT 

it  to  us?  A  tree  grows  up  straight  and  tall,  stretching  out 
branches  around  it,  jull  of  jree-jiowing  sap;  so  is  a  man  who 
labours  calmly,  and  sees  the  slow  development  of  the  many- 
sided  life  in  his  veins  fulfil  itself  in  him  and  in  his  sons. 
Is  not  this  the  first  law,  the  first  of  joys?  Brothers  of  the 
world,  which  of  you  envies  the  others  or  woidd  deprive  them 
of  this  just  happiness?  What  have  we  to  do  with  the  ambi- 
tions ajtd  rivalries,  covetousness,  and  ills  of  the  mind,  which 
they  dignify  with  the  name  of  Patriotism?  Our  Country 
means  you.  Fathers  and  Sons.  All  our  sons. — Come  and 
save  them!" 


Clerambault  asked  no  one's  advice  but  as  soon  as  he 
had  written  these  pages  he  took  them  to  the  editor  of  a 
small  socialist  paper  nearby.  He  came  back  much  relieved, 
as  he  thought: 

"  That  is  off  my  mind.  I  have  spoken  out,  at  last."  But 
in  the  following  night,  a  weight  on  his  heart  told  him  that 
the  burden  was  still  there,  heavier  than  ever.  He  roused 
himself. 

"  What  have  I  done?  " 

He  felt  that  he  had  been  almost  immodest  to  show  his 
sacred  sorrow  to  the  public;  and  though  he  did  not  foresee 
the  anger  his  article  would  provoke,  he  knew  the  lack  of 
comprehension,  the  coarse  comments,  which  are  in  them- 
selves a  profanation. 

Days  passed,  and  nothing  happened.  Silence.  The  ap- 
peal had  fallen  on  the  ear  of  an  inattentive  public,  the  pub- 
lisher was  little  known,  the  pamphlet  carelessly  issued. 
There  are  none  so  deaf  as  those  who  will  not  hear,  and  the 
few  readers  who  were  attracted  by  Clerambault's  name, 
merely  glanced  at  the  first  lines,  and  threw  it  aside,  think- 
ing: 

"  The  poor  man's  head  has  been  turned  by  his  sorrow," — 
a  good  pretext  for  not  wishing  to  upset  their  own  balance. 

A  second  article  followed,  in  which  Clerambault  took  a 
final  leave  of  the  bloody  old  fetish  falsely  called  Country; 
or  rather  in  opposition  to  the  great  flesh-eater,  the  she- 
wolf  of  Rome,  on  whose  altar  men  are  now  offered  up,  he 
set  the  august  Mother  of  all  living,  the  universal  Country: 

"S 


ii6  CLERAMBAULT 

TO  HER  WHOM  WE  HAVE  LOVED 

There  can  be  nothing  more  bitter  than  to  be  parted  from 
her  whom  one  has  loved.  I  lacerate  my  own  heart  when  I 
tear  Country  from  it; — dear,  beautijul,  and  good,  as  she 
seemed!  There  are  some  ardent  lovers  so  blinded  that  they 
can  forget  all  the  joy  and  love  of  former  days,  and  see  only 
the  change  in  the  loved  one,  and  the  harm  that  she  has  done 
them.  If  it  were  only  possible  for  me  to  be  like  that!  But 
I  cannot;  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  forget.  I  must  see  thee 
always  as  I  loved  thee,  when  I  trusted,  and  saw  in  thee  my 
guide  and  my  best  friend. — Oh,  my  Country!  why  hast 
thou  deserted  and  betrayed  me?  If  I  were  the  only  one  to 
suffer,  I  could  hide  the  sad  disenchantment  under  the 
memory  of  my  former  affection;  but  I  behold  thy  victims, 
these  trusting  devoted  youths. — /  see  myself  in  them,  as  I 
was. — And  how  greatly  thou  hast  deceived  us!  Thine  was 
as  the  voice  of  fraternal  love,  thou  calledst  us,  that  we  migltt 
all  be  united,  all  brothers, — no  more  isolation.  To  each  was 
lent  the  strength  of  millions  of  others,  and  we  were  taugJh 
to  love  our  sky,  our  soil,  and  the  work  of  our  hands,  that 
in  them  we  should  love  each  other  more,  for  thy  sake.  Now 
where  have  we  been  led?  Did  we  unite  to  increase,  and 
grow  stronger  to  hate  and  destroy?  We  had  known  too 
much  of  these  isolated  hatreds  in  the  past.  Each  had  his 
load  of  evil  thoughts,  but  at  least  we  knew  them  to  be  evil. 
But  now  our  souls  are  poisoned,  since  thou  hast  called  fhese 
things  sacred.  .    .    . 

Why  these  combats?  To  set  us  free?  But  thou  hast 
made  slaves  of  us.  Our  conscience  is  outraged,  our  hap- 
piness gone,  our  prosperity  destroyed.  What  need  have  we 
of  further  conquests,  when  the  land  of  our  fathers  has  grown 
too  wide  for  their  children?  Is  it  to  satisfy  the  greed  of 
some  among  us,  and  can  it  be  that  the  Country  will  fill 
their  maw  at  the  cost  of  public  misfortune? 

Patriotism,  sold  to  the  rich,  to  those  who  traffic  in  the 
blood  of  souls  and  of  nations!    Partner  and  accomplice,  cov- 


CLERAMBAULT  117 

ering  your  villainies  with  an  heroic  mantle,  look  to  thyself/ 
The  hour  is  coming  when  the  peoples  will  shake  off  the 
vermin,  the  gods  and  masters  by  whom  they  have  been  de- 
ceived. They  will  drive  out  the  guilty  from  among  them. 
I  shall  strike  straight  at  the  Head  whose  shadow  is  over  m 
all. — Thou  who  sittest  impassively  on  thy  throne,  while 
multitudes  slaughter  each  other  in  thy  name,  thou  whom 
they  worship  while  they  hate  their  fellow-man,  thou  who 
hast  pleasure  in  the  bloody  orgies  of  the  nations,  Goddess 
of  prey,  Anti-Christ,  hovering  over  these  butcheries  with 
thy  spread  wings,  and  hawk's  talons; — who  will  tear  thee 
from  our  heaven?  Who  will  give  us  back  the  sun,  and  our 
love  for  our  brothers?  .  .  .  I  am  alone,  and  have  but  my 
voice,  which  will  soon  be  silent,  but  before  I  disappear,  hear 
my  cry:  "  Thou  wilt  fall.  Tyrant,  for  humanity  must  live. 
The  time  will  come  when  men  will  break  this  yoke  of  death 
and  falsehood; — that  time  is  near,  it  is  at  hand." 

THE  LOVED  ONE'S  REPLY 
My  son,  your  words  are  like  stones  that  a  child  throws 
at  the  sky  which  he  cannot  reach;  they  will  fall  back  on 
your  own  head.  She  whom  you  insult,  who  has  usurped  my 
name,  is  an  idol  carved  by  yourself,  in  your  own  image,  not 
in  mine.  The  true  Country  is  that  of  the  Father.  She 
belongs  to  all,  and  embraces  everyone. — It  is  not  her  fault 
if  you  have  brought  her  down  to  your  own  level  .  .  . 
Unhappy  creatures,  who  sully  your  gods;  there  is  not  a 
lofty  idea  that  you  have  not  tarnished.  You  turn  the  good 
that  is  brought  you,  into  poison,  and  scorch  yourselves  with 
the  very  light  that  shines  on  you.  I  came  among  you  to 
bring  warmth  to  your  loneliness;  I  brought  your  shivering 
souls  together  in  a  flock,  and  bound  your  scattered  weak- 
ness in  sheaves  of  arrows.  J  am  brotherly  love,  the  great 
Communion;  and  you  destroy  your  fellows  in  my  name, 
fools  that  you  are!  .    .   . 

For  ages  I  have  toiled  to  deliver  you  from  the  chains  of 
bestiality,  to  free  you  from  your  hard  egotism.    On  the  road 


ii8  CLERAMBAULT 

of  Time  you  advance  by  toil  and  sweat;  provinces  and 
nations  are  the  military  milestones  which  mark  your  resting- 
places.  Your  weakness  alone  created  them.  Before  I  can 
lead  you  farther,  I  nmst  wait  till  you  have  taken  breath; 
you  have  so  little  strength  of  lungs  or  heart,  that  you  have 
made  virtues  of  your  weaknesses.  You  admire  your  heroes 
for  the  distance  they  went  before  they  dropped  exhausted; 
not  because  they  were  the  first  to  reach  those  limits.  And 
when  you  have  come  without  difficulty  to  the  spot  where 
these  forerunners  stopped,  you  think  yourselves  heroes  in 
your  turn.. 

What  have  these  shadows  of  the  past  to  do  with  us  today? 
Bayard,  Joan  of  Arc,  we  have  no  further  need  of  heroism 
like  theirs,  knights  and  martyrs  of  a  dead  cause.  We  want 
apostles  of  the  future,  great  hearts  that  will  give  themselves 
for  a  larger  country,  a  higher  ideal.  Forward  then;  cross 
the  old  frontiers,  and  if  you  must  still  use  these  crutches, 
to  help  your  lameness,  thrust  the  barriers  back  to  the  doors 
of  the  East,  the  confines  of  Europe,  until  at  last  step  by 
step  you  reach  the  end,  and  men  encircle  the  globe,  each 
holding  by  the  other's  hand.  Before  you  insult  me,  poor 
little  author,  descend  into  your  own  heart,  examine  your- 
self. The  gift  of  speech  was  given  you  to  guide  your  peo- 
ple, and  you  have  used  it  to  deceive  yourself  and  lead  them 
astray.  You  have  added  to  their  error  instead  of  saving 
them,  even  to  the  point  that  you  have  laid  your  own  son 
whom  you  loved  on  the  altar  of  your  untruth. 

Now  at  least  dare  to  show  to  others  the  ruin  that  you  are, 
and  say:  "See  what  I  am,  and  take  warning! "  .  .  .Go! 
And  may  your  misfortunes  save  those  that  come  after  from 
the  same  fate!  Dare  to  speak,  and  cry  out  to  them:  "  You 
are  mad,  peoples  of  the  earth;  instead  of  defending  your 
Country,  you  are  killing  her.  You  are  your  Country  and 
the  enemies  are  your  brothers.  Millions  of  God's  creatures, 
love  one  another. 


The  same  silence  as  before  seemed  to  swallow  up  this 
last  cry.  Clerambault  lived  outside  of  popular  circles  where 
he  would  have  found  the  warm  sympathy  cf  simple, 
healthy  minds.  Not  the  slightest  echo  of  his  thought  came 
to  him. 

He  knew  that  he  was  not  really  alone,  though  he  seemed 
so.  Two  apparently  contradictory  sentiments — ^his  modesty 
and  his  faith — united  to  say  to  him:  "  What  you  thought, 
others  have  thought  also;  you  are  too  small,  this  truth  is 
too  great,  to  exist  only  in  you.  The  light  that  your  weak 
eyes  have  seen  has  shone  also  for  others.  See  where  now 
the  Great  Bear  inclines  to  the  horizon, — millions  of  eyes 
are  looking  at  it,  perhaps;  but  you  cannot  see  them,  only 
the  far-off  light  makes  a  bond  between  their  sight  and 
yours*." 

The  solitude  of  the  mind  is  only  a  painful  delusion;  it 
has  no  real  existence,  for  even  the  most  independent  of  us 
are  members  of  a  spiritual  family.  This  community  of  spirit 
has  no  relation  to  time  or  space;  its  elements  are  dispersed 
among  all  peoples  and  all  ages.  Conservatives  see  them  in 
the  past,  but  the  revolutionists  and  the  persecuted  look  to 
the  future  for  them.  Past  and  future  are  not  less  real  than 
the  immediate  present,  which  is  a  wall  beyond  which  the 
calm  eyes  of  the  flock  can  see  nothing.  The  present  itself 
is  not  what  the  arbitrary  divisions  of  states,  nations,  and 
religions  would  have  us  believe.  In  our  time  humanity 
is  a  bazaar  of  ideas,  unsorted  and  thrown  together  in  a 
heap,  with  hastily  constructed  partitions  between  them,  so 
that  brothers  are  separated  from  brothers,  and  thrown  in 
with  strangers.  Every  country  has  swallowed  up  different 
races,  not  formed  to  think  and  act  together;  so  that  each 

119 


I20  CLERAMBAULT 

one  of  these  spiritual  families,  or  families-in-Iaw,  which  we 
call  nations,  comprises  elements  which  in  fact  form  part  of 
different  groups,  past,  present,  or  future.  Since  these  can- 
not be  destroyed,  they  are  oppressed;  they  can  escape 
destruction  only  by  some  subterfuge,  apparent  submission, 
inward  rebellion,  or  flight  and  voluntary  exile.  They  are 
Heimatlos.  To  reproach  them  for  lack  of  patriotism  is  to 
blame  Irishmen  and  Poles  for  their  resistance  to  English  and 
Prussian  absorption.  No  matter  where  they  are,  men  re- 
main loyal  to  their  true  country.  You  who  pretend  that 
the  object  of  this  war  is  to  give  the  right  of  self-determina- 
tion to  all  peoples,  when  will  you  restore  this  right  to  the 
great  Rq)ublic  of  free  souls  dispersed  over  the  whole 
world? 

However  cut  off  from  the  world,  Clerambault  knew  that 
this  Republic  existed.  Like  the  Rome  of  Sertorius,  it  dwelt 
in  him,  and  though  they  may  be  unknown  eacli  to  the 
other,  it  dwells  in  every  man  to  whom  it  is  the  true 
Country. 


The  wall  of  silence  which  surrounded  Clerambault's 
words  fell  all  at  once.  But  it  was  not  a  friendly  voice  which 
answered  his.  It  seemed  rather  as  if  stupidity  and  blind 
hatred  had  made  a  breach  where  sympathy  had  been  too 
weak  to  find  a  way. 

Several  weeks  had  passed  and  Clerambault  was  thinking 
of  a  new  publication,  when,  one  morning,  Leo  Camus  burst 
noisily  into  his  room.  He  was  blue  with  rage,  as  with  the 
most  tragic  expression  he  held  up  a  newspaper  before  Cler- 
ambault's eyes: 

"  Read  that!  "  he  commanded,  and  standing  behind  his 
brother-in-law  as  he  read,  he  went  on: 

"  What  does  the  beastly  thing  mean?  " 

Clerambault  was  dismayed  to  find  himself  stabbed  by 
what  he  had  believed  to  be  a  friendly  hand.  A  well-known 
writer,  a  colleague  of  Perrotin's,  a  serious  honourable  man, 
and  one  always  on  good  terms  with  him,  had  denounced 
him  publicly  and  without  hesitation.  Though  he  had  known 
Clerambault  long  enough  to  have  no  doubt  as  to  the  purity 
of  his  intentions,  he  held  him  up  as  a  man  dishonoured. 
An  historian,  well  used  to  the  manipulation  of  text,  he  seized 
upon  detached  phrases  of  Clerambault's  pamphlet  and 
brandished  them  as  an  act  of  treason.  A  personal  letter 
would  not  have  satisfied  his  virtuous  indignation;  he  chose 
a  loud  "yellow  journal,"  a  laboratory  of  blackmail  de- 
spised by  a  million  Frenchmen,  who  nevertheless  swallowed 
all  its  humbug  with  open  mouths. 

"  I  can't  believe  it,"  stammered  Clerambault,  who  felt 
helpless  before  this  unexpected  hostility. 

"  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost,"  declared  Camus,  "  you 
must  answer." 


122  CLERAMBAULT 

"  Answer?    But  what  can  I  say?  " 

"  The  first  thing,  of  course,  is  to  deny  it  as  a  base  inven- 
tion." 

"  But  it  is  not  an  invention,"  said  Clerambault,  looking 
Camus  in  the  face.  It  was  the  turn  of  the  latter  to  look 
as  if  he  had  been  struck  by  lightning. 

"  You  say  it  is  not, — not?  "  he  stammered. 

"  I  wrote  the  pamphlet,"  said  Clerambault,  "  but  the 
meaning  has  been  distorted  by  this  article." 

Camus  could  not  wait  for  the  end  of  the  sentence,  but 
began  to  howl:  "  You  wrote  a  thing  like  that!  .  .  .  You, 
a  man  like  you!  " 

Clerambault  tried  to  calm  his  brother-in-law,  begging  him 
not  to  judge  until  he  knew  all;  but  Camus  would  do  noth- 
ing but  shout,  calling  him  crazy,  and  screaming:  "  I  don't 
know  anything  about  all  that.  Have  you  written  against 
the  war,  or  the  country.    Yes,  or  no?  " 

"  I  wrote  that  war  is  a  crime,  and  that  all  countries  are 
stained  by  it.  ..." 

Without  allowing  Clerambault  to  explain  himself  farther, 
Camus  sprang  at  him,  as  if  he  meant  to  shake  him  by  the 
collar;  but  restraining  himself,  he  hissed  in  his  face  that 
he  was  the  criminal,  and  deserved  to  be  tried  by  court- 
martial  at  once. 

The  raised  voices  brought  the  servant  to  listen  at  the 
door,  and  Madame  Clerambault  ran  in,  trying  to  appease 
her  brother,  in  a  high  key.  Clerambault  volunteered  to  read 
the  obnoxious  pamphlet  to  Camus,  but  in  vain,  as  he  refused 
furiously,  declaring  that  the  papers  had  told  him  all  he 
wanted  to  know  about  such  filth.  (He  said  all  papers  were 
liars,  but  acted  on  their  falsehoods,  none  the  less.)  Then, 
in  a  magisterial  tone,  he  called  on  Clerambault  to  sit  down 
and  write  on  the  spot  a  public  recantation.  Clerambault 
^ihrugged  his  shoulders,  saying  that  he  was  accountable  to 
■aothing  but  his  own  conscience — that  he  was  free. 


CLERAMBAULT  123 

"  No!  "  roared  Camus. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  am  not  free  to  say  what  I  think?  " 

"  You  are  not  free,  you  have  no  right  to  say  such  things," 
cried  the  exasperated  Camus.  "  Your  country  has  claims 
on  you,  and  your  family  first  of  all.  They  ought  to  shut 
you  up." 

He  insisted  that  the  letter  should  be  written  that  very 
moment,  but  Clerambault  simply  turned  his  back  on  him. 
So  he  left,  banging  the  door  after  him,  and  vowing  that  he 
would  never  set  foot  there  again,  that  all  was  over  between 
them. 

After  this  poor  Clerambault  had  to  submit  to  a  string  of 
questions  from  his  wife  who,  without  knowing  what  he  had 
done,  lamented  his  imprudence  and  asked  with  tears: 
"  Why,  why  he  had  not  kept  silent?  Had  they  not  trouble 
enough?  What  was  this  mania  he  had  for  talking?  And 
particularly  for  talking  differently  from  other  people?  " 

While  this  was  going  on,  Rosine  came  back  from  an 
errand,  and  Clerambault  appealed  to  her,  telling  her  in  a 
confused  manner  of  the  painful  scene  that  had  just  taken 
place,  and  begging  her  to  sit  down  there  by  his  table  and 
let  him  read  the  article  to  her.  Without  even  taking  off 
her  hat  and  gloves,  Rosine  did  sit  down  near  him,  and 
listened  sensibly,  sweetly,  and  when  he  had  done,  kissed 
him  and  said: 

"  Yes,  I  think  it's  fine, — but,  dear  Papa,  why  did  you 
do  it?  "     Clerambault  was  completely  taken  aback. 

"  What?  You  ask  why  I  did  it?  Don't  you  think  it  is 
right?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Yes,  I  believe  it  must  be  right  since 
you  say  so.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  it  was  not  necessary  to 
write  it.  ..." 

*'  Not  necessary?  But  if  it  is  right,  it  must  be  neces- 
sary." 

"  But  if  it  makes  such  a  fussi  " 


124  CLERAMBAULT 

"  That  is  no  reason  against  it." 

"  But  why  stir  people  up?  " 

"  Look  here,  my  little  girl,  you  think  as  I  do  about  this, 
do  you  not?  " 

"  Yes,  Papa,  I  suppose  so.  .   .   . " 

"  You  only  suppose?  .  .  .  Come  now,  you  detest  the 
war,  as  I  do,  and  wish  it  were  over;  everything  that  I  wrote 
there  I  have  said  to  you,  and  you  agreed.  ..." 

"  Yes,  Papa." 

"  Then  you  think  I  am  right?  " 

'•  Yes,  Papa."  She  put  her  arms  around  his  neck.  "  but 
we  don't  have  to  write  everything  that  we  think." 

Clerambault,  much  depressed,  tried  to  explain  what 
seemed  so  evident  to  him.  Rosine  listened,  and  answered 
quietly,  but  it  was  clear  that  she  did  not  understand. 
When  he  had  finished,  she  kissed  him  again  and  said: 

"  I  have  told  you  what  I  think.  Papa,  but  it  is  not  for 
me  to  judge.    You  know  much  better  than  I." 

With  that  she  went  into  her  room,  smiling  at  her  father, 
and  not  in  the  least  suspecting  that  she  had  just  taken 
away  from  him  his  greatest  support. 


This  abusive  attack  was  not  the  only  one,  for  when  the 
bell  was  once  tied  on  the  cat  it  never  ceased  to  ring.  How- 
ever, the  noise  would  have  been  drowned  in  the  general 
tumult,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  persistent  voice  which  led 
the  chorus  of  malignity  against  Clerambault. 

Unhappily  it  was  the  voice  of  one  of  his  oldest  friends, 
the  author  Octave  Bertin;  for  they  had  been  school-fellows 
at  the  Lycee  Henri  IV.  Bertin,  a  little  Parisian,  quick- 
witted, elegant,  and  precocious,  had  welcomed  the  awkward 
enthusiastic  advances  of  the  overgrown  youth  fresh  from  the 
country, — ungainly  in  body  and  mind,  his  clothes  always  too 
short  for  his  long  legs  and  arms,  a  mixture  of  innocence, 
simplicity,  ignorance,  and  bad  taste,  always  emphatic,  with 
overflowing  spirits,  yet  capable  of  the  most  original  sallies, 
and  striking  images.  None  of  this  had  escaped  the  sharp 
malicious  eye  of  young  Bertin;  neither  Clerambault's  ab- 
surdities nor  the  treasures  of  his  mind,  and  after  thinking 
him  over  he  had  decided  to  make  a  friend  of  him.  Cler- 
ambault's unfeigned  admiration  had  something  to  do  with 
this  decision.  For  several  years  they  shared  the  super- 
abundance of  their  youthful  ideas.  Both  dreamed  of  being 
artists;  they  read  their  literary  attempts  to  each  other,  and 
engaged  in  interminable  discussions,  in  which  Bertin  always 
had  the  upper  hand.  He  was  apt  to  be  first  in  everything. 
Clerambault  never  thought  of  contesting  his  superiority; 
he  was  much  more  likely  to  use  his  fists  to  convince  anyone 
who  denied  it.  He  stood  in  open-mouthed  admiration  be- 
fore his  brilliant  friend,  who  won  all  the  University  prizes 
without  seeming  to  work  for  them,  and  whom  his  teachers 
thought  destined  to  the  highest  honours — official  and  aca- 
demic, of  course. 

Bertin  was  of  the  same  mind  as  his  teachers;  he  was  in 

"5 


126  CLERAMBAULT 

haste  to  succeed,  and  believed  that  the  fruit  of  triumph  has 
more  flavour  when  one's  teeth  are  young  enough  to  bite  into 
it.  He  had  scarcely  left  the  University  when  he  found 
means  to  publish  in  a  great  Parisian  review  a  series  of 
essays  which  immediately  brought  him  to  the  notice  of  the 
general  public.  And  without  pausing  to  take  breath,  he  pro- 
duced one  after  another  a  novel  in  the  style  of  d'Annunzio, 
a  comedy  in  Rostand's  vein,  a  book  on  love,  another  on 
reforms  in  the  Constitution,  a  study  of  Modernism,  a 
monograph  on  Sarah  Bernhardt,  and,  finally,  the  "  Dia- 
logues of  the  Living."  The  sarcastic  but  measured  spirit 
of  this  last  work  obtained  for  him  the  position  of  column 
writer  on  one  of  the  leading  dailies.  Having  thus  entered 
journalism  he  stayed  in  the  profession,  and  became  one  of 
the  ornaments  of  the  Paris  of  Letters,  while  Clerambault's 
name  was  still  unknown.  The  latter  had  been  slow  in  gain- 
ing the  mastery  over  his  inward  resources,  and  was  so  occu- 
pied in  struggles  with  himself  that  he  had  no  time  for  the 
conquest  of  the  public.  His  first  works,  which  were  pub- 
lished with  difficulty,  were  not  read  by  more  than  a  dozen 
people.  It  is  only  fair  to  Bertin  to  say  that  he  was  one 
of  the  dozen,  and  that  he  appreciated  Clerambault's  talents. 
He  was  even  ready  to  say  so,  when  opportunity  served,  and 
as  long  as  Clerambault  was  unknown,  he  took  pleasure  in 
defending  him.  It  is  true  that  he  would  sometimes  add  a 
friendly  and  patronising  piece  of  advice  to  his  praises,  which, 
if  Clerambault  did  not  always  follow,  he  received  with  the 
old  affectionate  respect. 

In  a  little  while  Clerambault  became  known,  and  even 
celebrated.  Bertin,  somewhat  surprised,  sincerely  pleased 
by  his  friend's  success — the  least  bit  vexed  by  it,  perhaps — 
intimated  that  he  thought  it  exaggerated,  and  that  the  better 
Clerambault  was  the  obscure  Clerambault  before  his  reputa- 
tion was  made.  He  would  even  undertake  to  prove  this  to 
Clerambault  himself,  sometimes,  who  neither  agreed  nor  dis- 


CLERAMBAULT  127 

agreed.  For  how  could  he  tell,  who  thought  very  little  about 
it,  his  head  being  always  full  of  some  new  work?  The  two 
old  comrades  remained  on  excellent  terms,  but  little  by 
little  they  began  to  see  less  of  one  another. 

The  war  had  made  Bertin  a  furious  jingo.  In  the  old 
days  at  school  he  used  to  scandalise  Clerambault's  pro- 
vincial mind  by  his  impudent  disrespect  for  all  values,  po- 
litical and  social — country,  morality,  and  religion.  In  his 
literary  works  he  continued  to  parade  his  anarchism,  but  in 
a  sceptical,  worldly,  bored  sort  of  manner  which  was  to  the 
taste  of  his  rich  clientele.  Now,  before  this  clientele  and 
the  rest  of  those  who  purveyed  to  it,  his  brethren  of  the 
popular  press  and  theatres,  the  contemptible  Parny's  and 
Crebillon  Jr.'s  of  the  day,  he  suddenly  assumed  the  attitude 
of  Brutus  immolating  his  sons.  It  is  true  he  himself  had 
none,  but  perhaps  that  was  a  regret  to  him. 

Clerambault  did  not  dream  of  finding  fault  with  him  for 
these  opinions;  but  he  did  not  dream  either  that  his  old 
friend  and  amoralist  would  come  out  against  him  as  the 
defender  of  his  outraged  country.  But  was  it  a  question 
simply  of  his  country? 

There  was  a  personal  note  in  the  furious  diatribe  that 
Bertin  hurled  at  him  that  Clerambault  could  not  under- 
stand. In  the  general  mental  confusion,  Bertin,  naturally 
shocked  by  Clerambault's  ideas,  might  have  remonstrated 
with  him  frankly,  face  to  face;  but  without  any  warning, 
he  began  by  a  public  denunciation.  On  the  first  page  of 
his  paper  appeared  an  article  of  the  utmost  virulence;  he 
attacked,  not  only  his  ideas,  but  his  character,  speaking  of 
Clerambault's  tragic  struggle  with  his  conscience  as  an 
attack  of  literary  megalomania,  brought  on  by  undeserved 
success.  It  seemed  as  if  he  expressly  chose  words  likely 
to  wound  Clerambault,  and  he  ended  by  summoning  him 
to  retract  his  errors  in  a  tone  of  the  most  msulting  supe- 
riority. 


128  CLERAMBAULT 

The  violence  of  this  article,  from  so  well-known  an  author, 
made  an  event  in  Paris  of  the  "  Clerambault  Case."  It 
occupied  the  reporters  for  more  than  a  week,  a  long  time 
for  these  feather-headed  gentry.  Hardly  anyone  read  what 
Clerambault  had  actually  written;  it  was  not  worth  while. 
Bertin  had  read  it,  and  newspaper  men  do  not  make  a  prac- 
tice of  taking  unnecessary  trouble;  besides  it  was  not  a  ques- 
tion of  reading,  but  of  judgment.  A  strange  sort  of  Sacred 
Union  was  formed  over  Clerambault;  clericals  and  Jacobins 
came  together  to  condemn  him,  and  the  man  whom  they 
admired  yesterday  was  dragged  in  the  mud  today.  The 
national  poet  became  at  once  a  public  enemy,  and  all  the 
myrmidons  of  the  press  attacked  him  with  heroic  invec- 
tive. The  greater  number  of  them  united  bad  faith  with 
a  remarkable  ignorance.  Very  few  knew  Clerambault's 
works,  they  scarcely  knew  his  name  or  the  titles  of  his 
books,  but  that  no  more  kept  them  from  disparaging  him 
now  than  it  had  hindered  them  from  praising  him  when 
he  was  the  fashion.  Now,  in  their  eyes,  everything  that  he 
had  written  was  tainted  with  "  bochism,"  though  all  their 
quotations  were  inexact.  In  the  excitement  of  his  investi- 
gation, one  of  them  foisted  upon  Clerambault  the  author- 
ship of  another  man's  book,  the  author  of  which,  pale  with 
fright,  protested  with  indignation,  dissociating  himself  en- 
tirely from  his  dangerous  fellow-author.  Uneasy  at  their 
intimacy  with  Clerambault,  some  of  his  friends  did  not  wait 
to  have  it  recalled,  but  met  it  halfway,  writing  "  open 
letters,"  to  which  the  papers  gave  a  conspicuous  place. 
Some,  like  Bertin,  coupled  their  public  censure  with  a  de-' 
mand  that  he  should  confess  himself  in  the  wrong,  and' 
others,  less  considerate,  cast  him  off  in  the  bitterest  and 
most  insulting  terms.  Clerambault  was  crushed  by  all  this 
animosity;  it  could  not  arise  solely  from  his  articles,  it  must 
have  been  long  dormant  in  the  hearts  of  these  men.  And 
why  so  much  hidden  hatred? — ^What  had  he  done  to  them? 


CXERAMBAULT  129 

...  A  successful  artist  does  not  suspect  that  besides  the 
smiles  of  those  around  there  are  also  teeth,  only  waiting 
for  the  opportunity  to  bite. 

Clerambault  did  his  best  to  conceal  the  insults  in  the 
papers  from  his  wife.  Like  a  schoolboy  trying  to  spirit 
away  his  bad  marks  he  watched  for  the  post  so  as  to  sup- 
press the  obnoxious  sheets,  but  at  last  their  venom  seemed 
to  poison  the  very  air.  Among  their  friends  in  society, 
Madame  Clerambault  and  Rosine  had  to  bear  many  painful 
allusions,  small  affronts,  even  insults.  With  the  instinct  of 
justice  which  characterises  the  human  beast,  and  especially 
the  female,  they  were  held  responsible  for  Clerambault's 
ideas,  though  his  wife  and  daughter  knew  little  of  them 
and  disapproved  what  they  knew.  (Their  critics  did  not 
understand  them  either.)  The  more  polite  were  reticent, 
taking  pains  not  to  mention  Clerambault's  name,  or  ask 
after  him, — ^you  don't  speak  of  ropes,  you  know,  in 
the  house  of  a  man  who  has  been  hanged.  .  .  .  And 
this  calculated  silence  was  worse  than  open  abuse.  You 
would  have  said  that  Clerambault  had  done  something 
dishonest  or  immodest.  Madame  Clerambault  would  come 
back  full  of  bitterness,  and  Rosine  suffered  too,  though 
she  pretended  not  to  mind.  One  day,  a  friend,  whom 
they  met  in  the  street,  crossed  to  the  other  side,  turning 
away  her  head  so  as  to  avoid  bowing  to  them;  and  Rosine 
was  excluded  from  a  benevolent  society  where  she  had 
worked  hard  for  years. 

Women  were  particularly  active  in  this  patriotic  repro- 
bation. Clerambault's  appeal  for  reconciliation  and  pardon 
had  no  more  violent  opponents — and  it  was  the  same  every- 
where. The  tyranny  of  public  opinion  is  an  engine  of  op- 
pression, invented  by  the  modern  State,  and  much  more 
despotic  than  itself.  In  times  of  war  certain  women  have 
proved  its  most  ferocious  instruments.  Bertrand  Russell 
cites  the  case  of  an  unfortunate  man,  conductor  on  a  tram- 


130  '  CLERAMBAULT 

way,  married,  with  children,  and  honourably  discharged 
from  the  army,  who  killed  himself  on  account  of  the  insults 
and  persecutions  of  the  women  of  Middlesex.  In  all  coun- 
tries, poor  wretches  like  him  have  been  pursued,  crazed, 
driven  to  death,  by  these  war-maddened  Bacchantes.  This 
ought  not  to  surprise  us;  if  we  have  not  foreseen  this  mad- 
ness, it  is  because  we,  like  Clerambault  hitherto,  have 
lived  on  comfortable  accepted  opinions  and  idealisations. 
In  spite  of  the  efforts  of  woman  to  approximate  the  fal- 
lacious ideal  imagined  by  man  for  his  pleasure  and  tran- 
quillity, the  woman  of  the  present  day,  weak,  cut-off, 
trimmed  into  shape  as  she  is,  comes  much  closer  than  man 
to  the  primitive  earth.  She  is  at  the  source  of  our  instincts, 
and  more  richly  endowed  with  forces,  which  are  neither 
moral  nor  immoral  but  simply  animal.  If  love  is  her  chief 
function,  it  is  not  the  passion  sublimated  by  reason  but 
love  in  the  raw  state,  splendidly  blind,  mingling  selfishness 
and  sacrifice,  equally  irresponsible,  and  both  subservient  to 
the  deep  purposes  of  the  race.  The  tender,  flowery  embel- 
lishments with  which  the  couple  always  try  to  veil  the 
forces  that  affright  them,  are  like  arches  of  tropical  vines 
over  a  rushing  stream;  their  object  is  to  deceive.  Man 
could  not  bear  life  if  his  feeble  soul  saw  the  great  forces, 
as  they  are,  that  carry  him  along. 

His  ingenious  cowardice  strives  to  adapt  them  mentally 
to  his  weakness;  he  lies  about  love,  about  hatred,  about  his 
gods,  and  above  all  he  is  false  about  woman  and  about 
Country.  If  the  naked  truth  were  shown  to  him,  he  would 
fear  to  fall  into  convulsions,  and  so  he  substitutes  the  pale 
chromos  of  his  idealism.  The  war  had  broken  through  the 
thin  disguise,  and  Clerambault  saw  the  cruel  beast  without 
the  mantle  of  feline  courtesy  in  which  civilisation  drapes 
itself. 

Among  Clerambault's  former  friends,  the  most  tolerant 
were  those  belonging  to  the  political  world.    Deputies,  Min- 


CLERAMBAULT  131 

isters,  past  or  future;  accustomed  to  drive  the  human  flock, 
they  know  just  what  it  is  worth.  Clerambault's  daring 
seemed  merely  foolish  to  them.  What  they  thought  in  their 
hearts  was  twenty  times  worse,  but  they  thought  it  silly 
to  speak  it,  dangerous  to  write  it,  more  dangerous  still  to  an- 
swer it.  You  make  a  thing  known  when  you  attack  it,  and 
condemnation  only  gives  it  greater  importance.  Their  best 
advice  would  have  been  to  keep  silent  about  these  unlucky 
articles,  which  the  sleepy,  stumbling  public  would  have 
neglected  if  left  to  itself.  This  was  the  course  usually  fol- 
lowed by  Germany  during  the  war;  if  the  authorities  did 
not  see  their  way  clear  to  suppress  rebellious  writers,  they 
hid  them  imder  some  flowery  humbug. 

The  political  spirit  of  the  French  Democracy,  however, 
is  more  outspoken  and  more  narrow-minded;  silence  is  un- 
known to  it,  and  far  from  concealing  its  hatreds,  it  spits 
them  forth  from  the  house-tops.  Like  that  of  Rude,  French 
liberty  opens  her  mouth  and  bawls.  Anyone  who  differs 
from  her  opinion  of  the  moment  is  declared  a  traitor  forth- 
with; there  are  always  some  yellow  journals  to  tell  at 
what  price  the  independent  voice  was  bought,  and  twenty 
fanatics  to  stir  up  the  crowd  against  it.  Once  started, 
there  is  nothing  to  do  but  wait  imtil  the  fit  has  passed  off; 
but  in  the  meantime,  look  out  for  yourself  1  Prudent  folks 
join  in  the  hue  and  cry  from  a  safe  distance. 

The  editor  of  the  magazine  which  had  been  proud  to 
publish  Clerambault's  poems  for  years  whispered  to  him 
that  all  this  row  was  absurd — that  there  was  really  nothing 
in  his  "  case,"  but  that  on  account  of  his  subscribers  he 
should  have  to  scuttle  him.  He  was  awfully  sorry  .  .  . 
hoped  there  was  no  hard  feeling?  ...  In  short,  without 
being  rude,  he  made  the  whole  thing  look  ridiculous. 

Alas  for  human  nature!  Even  Perrotin  laughed  at  Cler- 
ambault  in  a  brilliantly  sarcastic  interview,  and  considered 
himself  to  be  still  his  friend  at  bottom. 


132  CLERAMBAULT 

In  his  own  house  Clerambault  now  found  himself  without 
support.  His  old  helpmate,  who  for  thirty  years  had  seen 
only  through  his  eyes,  rq)eating  his  words  without  even 
understanding  them,  was  now  afraid,  indignant  at  what  he 
had  written,  reproaching  him  bitterly  for  the  scandal,  the 
harm  done  to  the  name  of  the  family,  to  the  memory  of 
his  dead  son,  to  the  sacred  cause  of  vengeance,  to  his 
Country. 

Rosine  was  always  loving,  but  she  had  ceased  to  under- 
stand him.  A  woman's  mind  makes  but  few  demands,  if 
her  heart  is  satisfied;  so  it  was  enough  for  her  that  her 
father  was  no  longer  one  of  the  haters,  that  he  remained 
compassionate  and  kind.  She  did  not  want  him  to  trans- 
late his  sentiments  into  theories,  nor  above  all,  to  proclaim 
them.  She  had  much  affectionate  common-sense,  and  as 
long  as  matters  of  feeling  were  safe,  she  did  not  care  for 
the  rest,  not  understanding  the  inflexible  exigence  of  logic 
which  pushes  a  man  to  the  utmost  consequences  of  his 
faith. 

She  had  ceased  to  understand,  and  her  hour  had  passed — 
the  time  when,  without  knowing  it,  she  had  accepted  and 
fulfilled  a  maternal  mission  towards  her  father.  When  he 
was  weak,  broken,  and  uncertain,  she  had  sheltered  him 
imder  her  wing,  rescued  his  conscience,  and  given  back  to 
him  the  torch  which  he  had  let  fall  from  his  hand.  Now 
her  part  was  accomplished,  she  was  once  more  the  loving 
"  little  daughter  "  somewhat  in  the  shade,  who  looks  on  at 
the  great  events  of  life  with  eyes  that  are  almost  indif- 
ferent, and  in  the  depths  of  her  soul  treasured  devoutly  the 
afterglow  of  the  wonderful  hour  through  which  she  had 
lived — all  uncomprdiending. 


It  was  about  this  time  that  a  young  man  home  on  leave 
came  to  see  Clerambault,  Daniel  Favre  was  a  friend  of  the 
family,  an  engineer  like  his  father  before  him.  He  had  long 
been  an  admirer  of  Clerambault,  for  his  keen  intelligence 
was  not  limited  to  his  profession;  indeed  the  extended 
flights  of  modern  science  have  brought  his  domain  close  to 
that  of  poetry,  it  is  itself  the  greatest  of  poems.  Daniel  was 
an  enthusiastic  reader  of  Clerambault's  writings.  They  cor- 
responded affectionately,  knew  each  other's  families,  and 
the  young  man  was  a  frequent  visitor,  perhaps  not  solely 
for  the  pleasure  of  conversing  with  the  poet.  He  was  a 
nice  fellow,  about  thirty  years  old,  tall,  well  set-up,  with 
good  features,  a  timid  smile,  and  eyes  which  looked  start- 
lingly  light  in  his  sunburnt  face.  They  were  all  glad  to 
see  him,  and  Clerambault  was  not  the  only  member  of  the 
family  who  enjoyed  his  visits.  David  might  easily  have 
been  assigned  to  duty  in  a  munitions  factory,  but  he  had 
applied  for  a  dangerous  post  at  the  Front,  where  he  had 
quickly  been  promoted  to  the  rank  of  Lieutenant.  Having 
a  few  days  in  town,  he  went  to  see  Clerambault. 

Madame  Clerambault  and  Rosine  were  out,  so  the  poet 
was  alone,  and  welcomed  his  young  friend  with  delight,  but 
Daniel  responded  awkwardly,  answering  questions  some- 
what at  random,  and  at  last  abruptly  brought  up  the  sub- 
ject which  he  had  at  heart.  He  said  that  he  had  heard 
talk  at  the  front  of  Clerambault's  articles,  and  he  felt 
very  badly.  People  said — they  made  out  that — well,  he 
had  heard  severe  things  about  them;  he  knew  people  were 
often  unjust,  but  he  had  come — here  he  pressed  Cleram- 
bault's hand  in  a  timid  friendly  way — he  had  come  to 
entreat  him  not  to  desert  all  those  who  loved  him.    He  re- 

i33 


134  CLERAMBAULT 

minded  him  of  the  devotion  that  had  inspired  the  poet  who 
had  celebrated  the  traditions  of  French  soil  and  the  glories 
of  the  race.  .  .  .  "  In  this  hour  of  trial,"  he  implored, 
"  stand  by  us." 

"  I  have  never  been  closer  to  you  than  now,"  answered 
Clerambault,  and  he  added: 

"  You  say  that  people  blame  what  I  have  written.  Dear 
boy,  what  do  you  think  of  it  yourself?  " 

"  I  confess  I  have  not  read  it,"  said  Daniel.  "  I  did  not 
want  to,  for  fear  that  it  might  disturb  my  affection  for  you, 
or  hinder  me  in  my  duty." 

"  Your  faith  cannot  be  very  strong,  if  a  few  lines  of 
print  can  shake  it." 

"  My  convictions  are  firm  enough,"  said  Daniel,  a  little 
miffed,  "  but  there  are  certain  things  which  it  is  wisest  not 
to  discuss." 

"  That  is  something  that  I  should  not  have  expected  to 
hear  from  a  scientific  man,"  said  Clerambault.  "  The  truth 
can  lose  nothing  by  discussion." 

"  Truth,  no,  but  love — love  of  country." 

"  My  dear  Daniel,  you  go  farther  than  I.  I  do  not  place 
truth  in  opposition  to  love  of  country,  on  the  contrary  I 
endeavour  to  reconcile  them." 

Daniel  tried  to  cut  the  matter  short. 

"  The  country  is  not  a  subject  for  discussion." 

"  Is  it  an  article  of  faith?  " 

"  You  know  I  do  not  believe  in  religions,"  protested 
Daniel.  "  I  have  no  faith  in  any  of  them.  But  that  is  the 
very  reason.  What  should  we  have  left  on  earth  if  it  were 
not  for  our  country?  " 

"  I  think  that  there  are  many  great  and  beautiful  things 
in  the  world,  and  Country  is  only  one  of  them;  but  I  am 
not  discussing  the  love,  but  the  way  of  loving." 

"  There  is  only  one,"  said  Daniel. 

"  And  what  is  that?  " 


CLERAMBAULT  135 

"  We  must  obey." 

"  The  ancient  symbol.  Love  with  bandaged  eyes;  I  only 
want  to  open  them." 

'*  No,  no,  let  us  alone.  It  is  hard  enough  already.  Don't 
make  it  any  worse  for  us."  In  a  few  phrases,  temperate, 
yet  broken  by  emotion,  Daniel  brought  up  the  terrible  pic- 
ture of  the  weeks  that  he  had  spent  in  the  trenches;  the 
disgust  and  the  horror  of  what  he  had  borne  himself,  the 
suffering  he  had  seen  in  others,  had  inflicted  on  them. 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  if  you  see  this  shameful  thing, 
why  not  try  to  prevent  it?  " 

**  Because  it  is  impossible." 

"  To  be  sure  of  that,  you  might  at  least  make  the 
attempt." 

"  The  conflict  between  men  is  the  law  of  Nature.  Kill 
or  be  killed.    So  be  it." 

"  And  can  it  never  be  changed?  " 

"  No,  never,"  said  Daniel,  in  a  tone  of  sad  obstinacy, 
"  it  is  the  law." 

There  are  some  scientific  men  from  whom  science  seems 
to  hide  the  truth  it  contains,  so  that  they  cannot  see  reality 
at  the  bottom  of  the  net.  They  embrace  the  whole  field  that 
has  been  discovered,  but  would  think  it  impossible  and  even 
ridiculous  to  enlarge  it  beyond  the  limits  already  traced  by 
reason.  They  only  believe  in  a  progress  that  is  chained  to 
the  inside  of  the  enclosure.  Clerambault  knew  only  too  well 
the  supercilious  smile  with  which  the  ideas  of  inventors 
are  put  aside  by  learned  men^  from  the  official  schools. 
There  are  certain  forms  of  science  which  accord  perfectly 
with  docility.  David's  manner  showed  no  irony;  it  ex- 
pressed rather  a  stoical,  baffled  kind  of  melancholy.  In 
abstract  questions  he  did  not  lack  courage  of  thought,  but 
whrn  faced  with  the  facts  of  life  he  was  a  mixture,  or 
rather  a  succession,  of  timidity  and  stiffness,  diffident  mod- 
esty, and  firmness  of  conviction.    In  short  he  was  a  man, 


136  CLERAMBAULT 

like  other  men,  complex  and  contradictory,  not  all  in  one 
piece.  The  trouble  is  that,  in  an  intellectual  and  a  man 
of  science,  the  pieces  lap  over  one  another  and  the  join- 
ings show. 

Clerambault  sat  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  began 
to  utter  the  thoughts  that  had  passed  through  his  mind. 
"  Nevertheless,"  said  he,  "  the  results  of  science  itself  are 
changeful.  For  the  last  twenty  years  all  our  conceptions 
of  chemistry  and  physiology  have  been  going  through  a 
crisis  which  has  altered  and  made  them  much  more  fruitful. 
Why  should  not  the  so-called  laws  which  regulate  human 
society — or  rather  the  state  of  chronic  brigandage  among 
nations — why  should  not  they  also  be  changed?  Is  there 
no  place  in  your  mind  for  the  hope  of  a  higher  future?  " 

"  We  could  not  go  on  at  all,"  said  Daniel,  "  if  we  had  not 
the  hope  of  establishing  a  new  order  more  just  and  humane. 
Many  of  my  comrades  hope  through  this  war  to  put  an 
end  to  all  wars.  I  have  not  that  confidence,  and  do  not 
go  so  far  as  that;  but  I  do  know  certainly  that  our  France 
is  in  danger,  and  that  if  she  is  conquered,  humanity  will 
fall  with  her." 

"  The  defeat  of  any  people  is  that  of  humanity,  for  we 
are  all  necessary,  and  the  union  of  all  nations  would  be  the 
only  true  victory.  Any  other  ruins  the  victors  as  well  as 
the  vanquished.  Every  day  that  this  war  lasts  the  precious 
blood  of  France  is  shed,  and  she  runs  great  risk  of  per- 
manent exhaustion." 

Daniel  stopped  him  with  a  gesture  of  irritation  and  pain. 
Oh,  he  knew  too  well  ...  no  one  better  than  he,  that 
France  was  dying  each  day  from  her  heroic  effort.  That 
the  pick  of  her  youth,  her  strength,  her  intelligence,  the 
vital  sap  of  the  race,  was  pouring  out  in  torrents,  and  with 
it  the  wealth,  the  labour,  the  credit  of  the  people  of 
France.  France,  bleeding  at  every  vein,  would  follow  the 
path  that  Spain  had  trod  four  centuries  ago,  the  path  that 


CLERAMBAULT  137 

led  to  the  deserts  of  the  Escurial.  Yes,  but  let  no  one 
speak  to  him  of  a  peace  that  would  put  an  end  to  this 
agony  until  the  adversary  was  totally  crushed ;  no  one  ought 
to  respond  to  the  advances  that  Germany  was  then  mak- 
ing— they  ought  not  to  be  considered,  or  even  mentioned. 
And  then,  like  the  politicians,  the  generals,  the  journalists, 
and  millions  of  poor  creatures  who  repeat  at  the  top  of 
their  voices  the  lesson  taught  them,  David  cried:  "  To  the 
last  man!  " 

Clerambault  looked  at  him  with  affectionate  pity.  Poor 
boy!  brave,  yet  so  timid  that  he  shrank  from  the  thought 
of  discussing  the  dogmas  of  which  he  was  the  victim.  His 
scientific  mind  dared  not  revolt  against  the  stupidity  of  this 
bloody  game,  where  death  for  France  as  well  as  for  Ger- 
many— ^perhaps  more  than  for  Germany,  was  the  stake. 

Yes,  he  did  revolt,  but  would  not  admit  it  to  himself. 
He  tried  again  to  influence  Clerambault:  "Your  ideas  per- 
haps are  right  and  true,  but  this  is  not  the  time  .  .  . 
not  now.  In  twenty,  or  even  fifty  years.  We  must  first 
conquer,  finish  our  task,  found  the  freedom  of  the  world, 
the  brotherhood  of  men,  on  the  enduring  victory  of 
France." 

Poor  Daniel!  Can  he  not  see  that,  even  at  the  best,  the 
victory  is  doomed  to  be  tarnished  by  excesses,  and  that 
then  it  will  be  the  turn  of  the  vanquished  to  set  their  minds 
on  a  frantic  revenge  and  a  just  victory?  Each  nation  de- 
sires the  end  of  wars  through  its  own  triumph,  and  from 
one  such  victory  to  another  humanity  will  go  down  to  its 
defeat. 

As  Daniel  stood  up  to  go  he  pressed  Clerambault's  hands 
and  reminded  him  with  much  feeling  of  his  poem  where,  in 
the  heroic  words  of  Beethoven,  he  exalted  the  suffering  out 
of  which  joy  is  born.  ..."  Durch  Leiden  Frcude."  He 
sighed. 

"  Ah  I  how  well  they  understand.  .   .  .  We  sing  of  suffer- 


I3S  CLERAMBAULT 

ing  and  our  deliverance,  but  they  are  enamoured  of  it.  And 
now  our  hymn  of  deliverance  will  become  a  song  of  oppres- 
sion for  other  men.  ..." 

Clerambault  could  not  answer,  he  had  a  real  love  for 
this  young  man,  one  of  those  who  sacrificed  themselves  for 
the  war,  knowing  well  that  they  had  nothing  to  gain;  and 
the  greater  their  sacrifices,  the  stronger  their  faith.  Bless- 
ings on  them!  But  if  only  they  would  consent  not  to  im- 
molate all  mankind  on  the  same  altar.  .  .  . 


RosiNE  came  in  just  as  Clerambault  and  Daniel  reached 
the  door  of  the  apartment;  she  started  with  pleasure  at  the 
sight  of  the  visitor,  and  Daniel's  face  lighted  up  also.  Cler- 
ambault could  not  help  noticing  the  sudden  gaiety  of  the  two 
young  people.  Rosine  urged  Daniel  to  come  in  again  for 
a  few  moments  and  talk  to  her  a  little;  Daniel  hesitated, 
did  come  back,  but  refused  to  sit  down,  and  in  a  constrained 
way  made  a  vague  excuse  for  going  away.  Clerambault, 
who  guessed  what  was  passing  in  his  daughter's  heart, 
begged  him  to  promise  that  he  would  come  at  least  once 
more  before  the  end  of  his  leave.  Daniel,  much  embar- 
rassed, said  no,  at  first,  then  yes,  without  fixing  a  time,  and 
at  last,  on  being  urged  by  Clerambault,  he  did  say  when 
they  might  expect  him,  and  took  leave,  but  his  manner  was 
still  rather  cool.  Rosine  stood  there,  absorbed.  She  looked 
troubled,  but  when  her  father  smiled  at  her,  she  came 
quickly  and  kissed  him. 

The  day  he  had  fixed  came  and  went,  but  no  Daniel 
appeared;  they  waited  for  him  the  next  day  and  the  one 
after  that.  He  had  gone  back  to  the  Front.  A  few  days 
later,  Clerambault  persuaded  his  wife  to  go  with  Rosine  to 
see  Daniel's  parents.  The  icy  coldness  with  which  they 
were  received  just  stopped  short  of  offence.  Madame  Cler- 
ambault came  home,  vowing  that  as  long  as  she  lived  she 
would  never  set  foot  again  in  that  house;  it  was  all  Rosine 
could  do  to  restrain  her  tears. 

The  following  week  a  letter  arrived  from  Daniel  to  Cler- 
ambault. Though  he  seemed  a  little  shamefaced  about  his 
attitude  and  that  of  his  parents,  he  tried  rather  to  explain, 
than  to  apologise  for  it.  He  spoke  of  the  ties  of  admiration, 
respect  and  friendship  which  united  him  to  Clerambault, 

139 


140  CLERAMBAULT 

and  alluded  discreetly  to  the  hope  that  he  had  formed  of 
one  day  becoming  closer  yet;  but  he  added  that  Cleram- 
bault  had  disturbed  these  dreams  of  the  future  by  the  re- 
grettable position  that  he  had  seen  fit  to  adopt  in  the  life 
and  death  crisis  through  which  the  country  was  now  pass- 
ing, a  position  rendered  worse  by  the  wide  publicity  given 
to  Clerambault's  words.  These  words,  little  understood 
perhaps,  but  certainly  imprudent,  had  raised  a  storm  of 
opposition  on  account  of  their  almost  sacrilegious  character; 
the  feeling  of  indignation  was  unanimous  among  the  men 
at  the  front,  as  well  as  in  the  circle  of  friends  at  home. 
His  parents  knew  what  his  hope  had  been,  but  they  now 
absolutely  refused  to  allow  it,  and  in  spite  of  the  pain  this 
caused  him,  he  did  not  feel  it  right  to  disregard  these 
scruples,  springing  as  they  did  from  a  profound  devotion 
to  the  wounded  country.  An  officer  who  had  the  honour 
to  offer  his  life  for  France  could  not  think  of  a  union  which 
would  be  regarded  as  his  adhesion  to  these  unfortunate 
theories;  public  opinion  would  condemn  it.  Such  a  view 
would  be  unjust,  undoubtedly,  but  it  is  a  thing  that  must 
always  be  reckoned  with;  the  opinion  of  a  whole  people 
is  respectable,  no  matter  how  extreme  and  unfair  it  may 
appear,  and  Clerambault  had  made  a  grave  mistake  in  trying 
to  brave  it.  Daniel  entreated  him  to  acknowledge  this  mis- 
take, and  try  to  rectify,  if  possible  efface,  the  deplorable 
effect  produced  by  articles  written  in  a  different  key.  He 
urged  this  upon  him  as  a  duty — towards  his  country  and 
himself — letting  it  be  understood  that  it  was  also  a  duty 
towards  one  dear  to  both  of  them.  In  ending  his  letter  he 
brought  forward  other  considerations  where  the  word 
opinion  constantly  recurred,  so  as  at  last  to  take  the  place 
of  reason  and  conscience. 

As  Clerambault  read  he  smiled,  recalling  a  scene  of  Spit- 
teler's.  The  king  Epimetheus  was  a  man  of  firm  conscience, 
but  when  the  time  came  to  put  it  to  the  proof,  he  could 


CLERAMBAULT  141 

not  lay  his  hand  upon  it,  saw  it  trying  to  escape,  ran  after 
it,  and  finally  threw  himself  flat  on  his  stomach  to  look  for 
it  under  the  bed.  Clerambault  reflected  that  one  might 
be  a  hero  under  the  fire  of  the  enemy,  but  a  timid  small 
boy  before  the  opinion  of  his  fellow-citizens. 

He  showed  the  letter  to  Rosine,  and  in  spite  of  the  par- 
tiality of  love,  she  was  hurt  that  her  friend  should  have 
wished  to  do  violence  to  her  father's  convictions.  Her 
conclusion  was  that  Daniel  did  not  love  her  enough;  and 
she  said  that  her  own  feeling  was  not  sufficiently  strong 
to  endure  such  exactions;  even  if  Clerambault  had  been 
willing  to  yield,  she  would  not  have  consented  to  such  an 
injustice;  whereupon  she  kissed  her  father,  tried  to  laugh 
bravely,  and  to  forget  her  cruel  disappointment. 

A  glimpse  of  happiness,  however,  is  not  so  easily  for- 
gotten, especially  if  there  remains  a  faint  chance  of  its 
renewal.  She  thought  of  it  constantly,  and  after  a  time 
Clerambault  felt  that  she  was  growing  away  from  him.  It 
is  difficult  not  to  feel  bitterly  towards  those  for  whom  we 
sacrifice  ourselves,  and  in  spite  of  herself  Rosine  held  her 
father  responsible  for  her  lost  happiness. 


A  STRANGE  phenomenon  now  made  itself  apparent  in 
Clerambault's  mind;  he  was  cast  down  but  strengthened  at 
the  same  time.  He  suffered  because  he  had  spoken,  and 
yet  he  felt  that  he  should  speak  again,  for  he  had  ceased 
to  belong  to  himself.  His  written  word  held  and  con- 
strained him;  he  was  bound  by  his  thought  as  soon  as  it 
was  published.  "  That  which  the  fountain  sends  forth  re- 
turns again  to  the  fountain."  Born  in  an  hour  of  mental 
exaltation,  his  work  prolonged  and  reproduced  itself  in  his 
mind,  which  would  otherwise  have  fallen  exhausted.  An 
artist's  thought  is  the  ray  of  light  from  the  depths,  the 
best  of  himself,  the  most  enduring;  it  supports  his  lower 
nature.  Man,  whether  he  likes  it  or  not,  leans  on  his  works 
and  is  led  by  them.  They  have  an  existence  outside  of  his 
own,  and  so  restore  his  lost  vigour,  recall  him  to  his  duty, 
guide  and  command  him.  Clerambault  would  have  pre- 
ferred to  remain  silent,  but  he  wrote  once  more. 

This  time  he  did  not  go  very  far.  "  Tremble,  poor  car- 
cass, you  know  where  I  am  going  to  drag  you,"  said 
Turenne  to  his  body  before  the  battle.  The  carcass  of 
Clerambault  was  not  more  courageous,  though  the  conflict 
to  which  it  was  driven  was  of  a  humbler  sort.  It  was  none 
the  less  hard,  for  he  was  alone  with  no  army  at  his  back. 
As  he  watched  by  his  arms,  he  was  a  pitiable  spectacle  in 
his  own  eyes.  He  saw  himself,  an  ordinary  man,  of  a  timid, 
rather  cowardly,  disposition,  depending  greatly  on  the  affec- 
tion and  approval  of  others.  It  was  terribly  painful  to 
break  these  ties,  to  meet  the  hatred  of  others  halfway.  .  .  . 
Was  he  strong  enough  to  resist?  ...  All  his  doubts  came 
back  upon  him.  .    .    .  What  forced  him  to  speak?    Who 

14« 


CXERAMBAULT  I43 

would  listen  to  him,  and  what  good  would  it  do?  Did  not 
the  wisest  people  set  him  the  example  of  silence? 

Nevertheless  his  brain  was  firm,  and  continued  to  dictate 
to  him  what  he  should  write;  his  hand  also  wrote  it  down 
without  the  alteration  of  a  word.  There  seemed  to  be  two 
men  in  him ;  one  who  threw  himself  on  the  ground  in  terror, 
and  cried:  "I  will  not  fight,"  and  the  other  who  dragged 
him  along  by  the  collar,  without  trying  to  persuade  him, 
saying  simply:  "Yes,  you  will." 

It  would  be  praising  him  too  highly  to  say  that  he  acted 
in  this  manner  through  bravery;  he  felt  that  he  could  not 
act  otherwise,  even  if  he  had  wished  to  stop;  something 
forced  him  to  go  on,  to  speak.  ...  It  was  his  "  mission." 
He  did  not  understand  it,  did  not  know  why  he  was  chosen, 
he,  the  poet  of  tenderness,  made  for  a  calm,  peaceful  life, 
free  from  sacrifices;  while  other  men — strong,  war-like, 
good  fighters  with  the  souls  of  athletes — remained  unem- 
ployed. But  it  was  of  no  use  to  dispute  it;  the  word  had 
gone  forth,  and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  obey. 

When  the  stronger  of  his  two  souls  had  once  asserted 
itself,  the  duality  of  his  nature  led  him  to  yield  to  it  en- 
tirely. A  more  normal  man  would  have  tried  to  unite 
them,  or  combine  them,  or  find  some  kind  of  compromise 
to  satisfy  the  demands  of  the  one  and  the  prudence  of  the 
other;  but  with  Clerambault  it  was  everything  or  nothing. 
Whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  once  he  had  chosen  his  road, 
he  followed  it  straight  before  him ;  and  the  same  causes  that 
had  made  him  accept  absolutely  the  views  of  those  around 
him,  drove  him  to  cast  off  every  consideration  now  that 
he  had  begun  to  see  the  falsehoods  which  had  deceived  him. 
If  he  had  been  less  mished,  he  would  not  have  unmasked 
them. 

Thus  the  brave-man-in-spite-of-himself  set  off  like  CEdipus 
for  the  fight  with  the  Sphinx,  Country,  who  awaited  him 
at  the  crossroads. 


Bertin's  attack  drew  the  attention  of  several  politicians 
to  Clerambault;  they  belonged  to  the  extreme  Left,  and 
found  it  difficult  to  conciliate  the  opposition  to  the  Govern- 
ment— their  reason  for  existence — with  the  Sacred  Union 
formed  against  the  enemies'  invasion. 

They  republished  the  first  two  articles  in  a  socialist 
paper  which  was  then  balancing  itself  between  contradic- 
tions; opposing  the  war,  and  at  the  same  time  voting  for 
credits.  You  could  see  in  its  pages  eloquent  statements 
of  internationalism  side  by  side  with  the  appeals  of  min- 
isters who  were  preaching  a  nationalist  policy.  In  this  see- 
saw Clerambault's  lightly  lyrical  pages,  where  the  attack 
on  the  idea  of  Country  was  made  with  caution,  and  the 
criticism  covered  up  by  devotion,  would  have  been  taken 
as  a  harmless  platonic  protestation.  Unfortunately,  the 
teeth  of  censure  had  fastened  themselves  upon  some  phrases, 
with  the  tenacity  of  ants;  they  might  have  escaped  notice 
in  the  general  distraction  of  thought,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  this. 

In  the  article  addressed  *'  To  Her  whom  We  have 
Loved,"  the  word  country  appears  the  first  time  coupled 
with  an  invocation  to  love.  The  critics  kept  this,  but  cut 
it  out  when  it  occurred  further  on  dissociated  from  such 
flattering  expressions.  The  word,  awkwardly  concealed 
under  this  extinguisher,  shone  all  the  more  brightly  in  the 
mind  of  the  reader — but  this  they  were  too  dull  to  per- 
ceive, and  great  importance  was  thus  given  to  writings  which 
had  not  much  in  themselves.  It  must  be  added  that  all 
minds  were  then  in  a  passive  state,  in  which  the  slightest 
word  of  liberal  humanitarianism  took  on  an  extraordinary 
importance,  particularly  if  signed  by  a  well-known  name. 

144 


CLERAMBAULT  145 

The  "Pardon  Asked  of  the  Dead"  was  more  effective 
than  the  other  ever  could  be;  its  sadness  touched  the  mass 
of  simple  hearts,  to  whom  the  war  was  agony.  The  authori- 
ties had  been  indifferent  up  to  now,  but  at  the  first  hint 
of  this  they  tried  to  put  a  stop  to  it.  They  had  sense 
enough  to  know  that  rigorous  measures  against  Clerambault 
would  be  a  mistake,  but  they  could  put  pressure  on  the 
paper  through  influence  behind  the  scenes.  An  opposition 
to  the  writer  showed  itself  on  the  staff  of  the  paper. 
Naturally  they  did  not  blame  the  internationalism  of  his 
views;  they  merely  stigmatised  it  as  bourgeois  senti- 
mentality. 

Gerambault  furnished  them  with  fresh  arguments  by  a 
new  article,  where  his  aversion  to  war  seemed  incidentally 
to  condemn  revolution  as  well.  Poets  are  proverbially  bad 
politicians. 

It  was  a  reply  to  "  The  Appeal  to  the  Dead,"  that 
Barr^s,  like  an  owl  perched  on  a  cypress  in  a  graveyard, 
had  wailed  forth. 

TO  THE  LIVING 

Death  rules  the  world.  You  that  are  living,  rise  and 
shake  off  the  yokel  It  is  not  enough  that  the  nations  are 
destroyed.  They  are  bidden  to  glorify  Death,  to  march 
towards  it  with  songs;  they  are  expected  to  admire  their 
own  sacrifice  .  .  .  to  call  it  the  "  most  glorious,  the  most 
enviable  fate"  .  .  .  but  how  untrue  this  is!  Life  is  the 
great,  the  holy  thing,  and  love  of  life  is  the  first  of  virtues. 
The  men  of  today  have  it  no  longer;  this  war  has  shown 
that,  and  even  worse.  If  has  proved  that  during  the  last 
fifteen  years,  many  have  hoped  for  these  horrible  upheavals 
— you  cannot  deny  it !  No  men  loves  life  who  has  no  better 
use  for  it  than  to  throw  it  into  the  jaws  of  Death.  Life  is 
a  burden  to  many — to  you  rich  of  the  middle-class,  re- 


146  CLERAMBAULT 

actionary  conservatives,  whose  moral  dyspepsia  takes  away 
your  appetite,  everything  tastes  flat  and  bitter.  Every- 
thing bores  you.  It  is  a  heavy  burden  also  to  you 
proletarians,  poor,  unhappy,  discouraged  by  your  hard  lot. 
In  the  dull  obscurity  of  your  lives,  hopeless  of  any  change 
for  the  better, — Oh,  Ye  of  little  faith! — your  only  chance 
of  escape  seems  to  be  through  an  act  of  violence  which  lifts 
you  out  of  the  mire  for  one  moment  at  least,  even  if  it 
be  the  last.  Anarchists  and  revolutionists  who  have  pre- 
served something  of  the  primitive  animal  energy  rely  on 
these  qualities  to  liberate  themselves  in  this  way;  they  are 
the  strong..  But  the  mass  of  the  people  are  too  weary  to 
take  the  initiative,  and  that  is  why  they  eagerly  welcome 
the  sharp  blade  of  war  which  pierces  through  to  the  core  of 
the  nations.  They  give  themselves  up  to  it,  darkly,  volup- 
tuously. It  is  the  only  moment  of  their  dim  lives  when  they 
can  feel  the  breath  of  the  infinite  within  them, — and  this 
moment  is  their  annihilation.  .    .    . 

Is  this  a  way  to  make  the  best  of  life?  .  .  .  Which  we 
can  only  maintain,  it  would  seem,  by  renouncing  it;  and 
for  the  sake  of  what  carnivorous  gods?  .  .  .  Country,  Revo- 
lution. .  .  .  who  grind  millions  of  men  in  their  bloody  jaws. 

What  glory  can  be  found  in  death  and  destruction?  It  is 
Life  that  we  need,  and  you  do  not  know  it,  for  you  are  not 
worthy.  You  have  never  felt  the  blessing  of  the  living  hour, 
the  joy  that  circulates  in  the  light.  Half-dead  souls,  you 
would  have  us  all  die  with  you,  and  when  we  stretch  out 
our  hands  to  save  you,  our  sick  brothers,  you  seek  to  drag 
us  down  with  you  into  the  pit. 

I  do  not  lay  the  blame  on  you,  poor  unfortunates,  but  on 
your  masters,  our  leaders  of  the  hour,  our  intellectual  and 
political  heads,  masters  of  gold,  iron,  blood,  and  thought! 
.  .  .  You  who  rule  the  nations,  who  move  armies;  you 
who  have  formed  this  generation  by  your  newspapers,  your 
books,  your  schools  and  your  churches,  and  who  have  made 


CLERAMBAULT  147 

docile  sheep  of  the  free  souls  of  men!  .  .  .  All  this  en- 
slaving education,  whether  lay  or  Christian,  though  it  dwells 
with  an  unhealthy  joy  on  military  glory  and  its  beatitude, 
still  shows  its  utter  hollowness,  for  both  Church  and  State 
bait  their  hook  with  Death.  .    .    . 

Woe  unto  you,  Scribes  and  Pharisees,  hypocrites,  poli- 
ticians, and  priests,  artists,  authors,  dancers  of  death;  in- 
wardly you  are  all  full  of  decay  and  dead  men's  bones. 
Truly  you  are  the  sons  of  them  that  slew  Christ,  and  like 
them  you  lay  on  men's  shoulders  burdens  grievous  to  be 
borne,  which  you  yourselves  would  not  touch  with  the  end 
of  your  fingers.  Crucijiers  are  you  like  them,  and  those  who 
come  among  you  to  help  the  suffering  peoples,  bringing 
blessed  peace  in  their  hands,  you  imprison  and  insult  them, 
and  as  the  Scripture  says,  persecute  them  from  city  to  city 
until  all  the  righteous  blood  shed  upon  the  earth  shall  fall 
upon  your  heads. 

You  work  only  to  provide  food  for  Death;  your  coun- 
tries are  made  to  subdue  the  future  to  the  past,  and  bind 
the  living  to  the  putrifying  corpses  of  the  dead..  You  con- 
demn the  new  life  to  perpetuate  the  empty  rites  of  the  tomb. 
.  .  .  Let  us  rise!  The  resurrection,  the  Easter  of  the 
living,  is  at  hand! 

Sons  of  men,  it  is  not  true  that  you  are  the  slaves  of 
the  dead  and  are  chained  by  them  like  serfs  to  the  earth. 
Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead,  and  itself  with  them; 
you  are  children  of  the  living,  and  live  in  your  turn. 
Souls  who  are  bound  to  the  countries  of  the  past,  shake 
off  the  neurasthenic  torpor,  wracked  by  outbursts  of 
frenzy,  which  weighs  you  down.  Shake  it  off,  my 
brothers,  you  who  are  young  and  strong;  be  masters 
of  the  present  and  the  past,  fathers  and  sons  of  your 
works.  Set  yourselves  free!  Each  one  of  you  is  Man; — 
not  flesh  that  rots  in  the  tomb,  but  the  blazing  fire  of  life 
which  purifies  corruption  and  renews  long-dead  corpses, 


148  CLERAMBAULT 

the  flame  ever  new  and  young  which  circles  the  earth  with 
its  burning  arms.  Be  free/  Conquerors  of  the  Bastille, 
you  have  not  yet  opened  the  dungeon  within  you,  the  falsely 
called  Fatality.  It  was  built  as  a  prison-house  for  you  cen- 
turies ago,  by  slaves  or  tyrants.  They  were  all  convicts  of 
the  same  stamp,  who  were  afraid  that  you  would  discover 
that  you  were  free.  Religions,  races,  countries,  materialistic 
science,  the  heavy  shadows  of  the  past,  are  between  you  and 
the  sun;  but  go  forward!  Liberty  is  there,  behind  those 
ramparts  and  towers,  built  of  prejudices,  dead  laws,  and 
consecrated  falsehoods.  They  are  guarded  by  the  interests 
of  some,  the  opinion  of  the  drilled  masses,  and  your  own 
doubting  spirit.  Dare  to  will;  and  behind  the  crumbling 
walls  of  this  spurious  Destiny,  you  will  once  more  behold 
the  sun  and  the  illimitable  horizon. 

Insensible  to  the  revolutionary  heat  of  this  appeal,  the 
staff  of  the  newspaper  only  fastened  its  attention  on  the  few 
lines  where  Clerambault  seemed  to  lump  all  violences  to- 
gether, those  of  the  "  left "  along  with  those  of  the 
"  right."  What  did  this  poet  mean  by  giving  lessons  to  the 
socialists  in  a  party  paper?  In  the  name  of  what  theory? 
He  was  not  even  a  socialist.  He  was  nothing  but  a  Tol- 
stoyian  anarchist;  let  him  go  back  to  his  exercises  in  style, 
and  his  middle-class  where  he  belonged.  Some  larger - 
minded  spirits  remonstrated  in  vain,  that,  with  or  without 
any  label,  liberal  ideas  ought  to  be  welcomed,  and  that  those 
of  Clerambault,  however  ignorant  he  might  be  of  the  party 
doctrines,  were  more  truly  socialistic  than  those  of  mem- 
bers of  the  party  who  joined  in  the  work  of  national 
slaughter.  These  views  were  over-ruled;  Clerambault's 
article  was  returned  to  him,  after  spending  some  weeks  in 
the  bottom  of  a  drawer,  on  the  pretext  that  there  were  so 
many  current  items  that  they  took  up  all  the  space,  and 
that  the  paper  had  too  much  copy  already. 


CLERAMBAULT  149 

Gerambault  took  his  article  to  a  small  review,  which 
was  more  attracted  by  his  name  than  by  his  ideas.  The 
upshot  was  that  the  review  was  called  down,  and  suspended 
by  police  order  the  day  after  the  article  appeared,  though 
it  had  been  whitewashed  through  and  through. 

Clerambault,  however,  persisted.  The  most  rebellious 
people  in  the  world  are  those  who  are  forced  to  rebellion 
after  a  lifetime  of  submission.  I  remember  once  to 
have  seen  a  big  sheep  so  worried  by  a  dog  that  he 
finally  threw  himself  upon  him.  The  dog  was  overcome 
by  this  unexpected  reversal  of  the  laws  of  nature  and 
ran  away,  howling  with  surprise  and  terror.  The  Dog- 
State  is  too  sure  of  its  own  fangs  to  feel  afraid  of  a  few 
mutinous  sheep;  but  the  lamb  Clerambault  no  longer  cal- 
culated the  danger;  he  simply  put  his  head  down  and  butted. 
Generous  and  weak  natures  are  prone  to  pass  without  transi- 
tion from  one  etxreme  to  another;  so  from  an  intensely 
gregarious  feeling  Clerambault  had  jumped  at  one  bound 
to  the  extreme  of  individual  isolation.  Because  he  knew  it 
so  well,  he  could  see  nothing  around  him  but  the  plague 
of  obedience,  that  social  suggestion  of  which  the  effects  are 
everywhere  manifest.  The  passive  heroism  of  the  armies 
excited  to  frenzy,  like  millions  of  ants  absorbed  in  the 
general  mass,  the  servility  of  Assemblies,  despising  the  head 
of  their  Government,  but  sustaining  him  by  their  votes, 
even  at  the  risk  of  an  explosion  brought  about  by  one 
**  bolter,"  the  sulky  but  well-drilled  submission  of  even 
the  liberal  Parties,  sacrificing  their  very  reason  for  existence 
to  the  absurd  fetish  of  abstract  unity.  This  abdication, 
this  passion,  represented  the  true  enemy  in  Clerambault's 
eyes.  And  it  was  his  task,  he  thought,  to  break  down  its 
great  suggestive  power  by  awakening  doubt,  the  spirit  that 
eats  away  all  chains. 


The  chief  seat  of  the  disease  was  the  idea  of  Nation;  this 
inflamed  point  could  not  be  touched  without  howls  from 
the  beast.    Clerambault  attacked  it  at  once,  without  gloves. 

What  have  I  to  do  with  your  nations?  Can  you  expect 
me  to  love  or  hate  a  nation?  It  is  men  that  I  love  or  hate, 
and  in  all  nations  you  will  find  the  noble,  the  base,  and 
the  ordinary  man.  Yes,  and  everywhere  are  jew  great  or 
low,  while  the  ordinary  abound.  Like  or  dislike  a  man  for 
what  he  is,  not  for  what  others  are;  and  if  there  is  one  man 
who  is  dear  to  me  in  a  whole  nation,  that  prevents  me  from 
condemning  it.  You  talk  of  struggles  and  hatred  between 
races?  Races  are  the  colours  of  life's  prism;  it  binds  them 
together,  and  we  have  light.  Woe  to  him  who  shatters  it! 
I  am  not  of  one  race,  I  belong  to  life  as  a  whole;  I  have 
brothers  in  every  nation,  enemy  or  ally,  and  those  you 
weuld  thrust  upon  me  as  compatriots  are  not  always  the 
nearest.  The  families  of  our  souls  are  scattered  through 
the  world.  Let  us  re-unite  them!  Our  task  is  to  undo 
these  chaotic  nations,  and  in  their  place  to  bind  together 
m^re  harmonious  groups.  Nothing  can  prevent  it;  on  the 
anvil  of  a  common  suffering,  persecution  will  forge  the 
common  affection  of  the  tortured  peoples. 

Clerambault  did  not  pride  himself  on  his  logic,  but  only 
tried  to  get  at  the  popular  idol  through  the  joints  of  his 
armour.  Often  he  did  not  deny  the  nation-idea,  but  ac- 
cepted it  as  natural,  at  the  same  time  attacking  national 
rivalries  in  the  most  forcible  manner.  This  attitude  was 
by  no  means  the  least  dangerous. 

150 


CLERAMBAULT  151 

/  cannot  interest  myself  in  struggles  for  supremacy  be- 
tween nations;  it  is  indifferent  which  colour  comes  up,  for 
humanity  gains,  no  matter  who  is  the  winner.  It  is  true, 
that  in  the  contests  of  peace,  the  most  vital,  intelligent,  and 
hard-working  people,  will  always  excel..  But  if  the  defeated 
competitors,  or  those  who  felt  themselves  falling  behind, 
were  to  resort  to  violence  to  eliminate  their  successful 
rivals,  it  would  be  a  monstrous  thing.  It  would  mean  the 
sacrifice  of  the  welfare  of  mankind  to  a  commercial  interest, 
and  Country  is  not  a  business  firm.  It  is  of  course  unfor- 
tunate that  when  one  nation  goes  up,  another  is  apt  to  go 
down.  But  when  "  big  business  "  in  my  country  interferes 
with  smaller  trade,  we  do  not  say  that  it  is  a  crime  of  Use- 
patriotism,  despite  the  fact  that  it  may  be  a  fig^t  which 
brings  ruin  and  death  to  many  innocent  victims. 

The  existing  economic  system  of  the  world  is  calamitous 
and  bad;  it  ought  to  be  remedied;  but  war,  which  tries  to 
swindle  a  more  fortunate  and  able  competitor  for  the 
benefit  of  the  inexpert  or  the  lazy,  makes  this  vicious  system 
worse;  it  enriches  a  few,  and  ruins  the  community. 

All  peoples  cannot  walk  abreast  on  the  same  road;  they 
are  always  passing  each  other,  and  being  outstripped  in  their 
turn.  What  does  it  matter,  since  we  are  all  in  the  same 
column?  We  should  get  rid  of  our  silly  self-conceit.  The 
pole  of  the  world's  energy  is  constantly  changing,  often  in 
the  same  country.  In  France  it  has  passed  from  Roman 
Provence  to  the  Loire  of  the  Valois;  now  it  is  at  Paris,  but 
it  will  not  stay  there  always.  The  entire  creation  swings 
in  alternate  rhythm  from  germinating  spring  to  dying 
autumn.  Commercial  methods  are  not  immutable,  any  more 
than  the  treasures  beneath  the  earth  are  inexhaustible.  A 
people  spends  itself  for  centuries,  without  counting  the 
cost;  its  very  greatness  will  lead  to  its  decline.  It  is  only 
by  renouncing  the  purity  of  its  blood  and  mixing  with  other 
nations  that  it  can  subsist.    Our  old  men  today  are  sending 


152  CLERAMBAULT 

the  young  ones  to  death;  it  does  not  make  them  younger, 
and  they  are  killing  the  future. 

Instead  of  raging  against  the  laws  of  life,  a  wholesome 
people  will  try  to  understand  them  and  see  its  real  progress, 
not  in  a  stupid  obstinacy  which  refuses  to  grow  old,  but 
in  a  constant  effort  to  advance  with  the  age,  changing  and 
becoming  greater..  To  each  epoch  its  own  task.  It  is 
merely  sloth  and  weakness  if  we  cling  all  our  lives  to  the 
same  one.  Learn  to  change,  for  in  that  is  life.  The  factory 
of  humanity  has  work  for  all  of  us.  Labour  for  all,  peo- 
ples of  the  world,  each  man  taking  pride  in  the  work  of  all 
the  rest,  for  the  travail,  the  genius  of  the  whole  earth  is 
ours  also! 

These  articles  appeared  here  and  there,  whenever  pos- 
sible, in  some  little  sheet  of  advanced  literary  and  anar- 
chistic views,  in  which  violent  attacks  on  persons  took  the 
place  of  a  reasoned-out  campaign  against  the  order  of 
things.  They  were  nearly  illegible,  defaced  as  they  were 
by  the  censor.  Besides,  when  an  article  was  reprinted  in 
another  paper,  he  would  let  pass  with  a  capricious  forget- 
fulness  what  he  had  cut  out  the  day  before,  and  cut 
what  he  had  passed  then.  It  took  close  study  to  make  out 
the  sense  of  the  article  after  this  treatment,  but  the  re- 
markable thing  was  that  the  adversaries  of  Clerambault, 
not  his  friends,  went  to  this  trouble.  Ordinarily,  at  Paris, 
these  squalls  do  not  last  long.  The  most  vindictive 
enemies,  trained  to  wars  of  the  pen,  know  that  silence  is  a 
sharper  weapon  than  insult,  and  get  more  out  of  their  ani- 
mosity by  keeping  it  quiet;  but  in  the  hysterical  crisis  in 
which  Europe  was  struggling,  there  was  no  guide,  even  for 
hatred.  Clerambault  was  continually  being  recalled  to  the 
public  mind  by  the  violent  attacks  of  Bertin,  though  he 
never  failed  to  conclude  each  one  in  which  he  had  discharged 


CLERAMBAULT  153 

his  venom,  with  a  disdainful:  "He  is  not  worth  speak- 
ing of." 

Bertin  was  only  too  familiar  with  the  weaknesses,  de- 
fects of  mind,  and  small  absurdities  of  his  former  friend; 
he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  touch  them  with  a 
sure  hand,  and  Clerambault,  stung  and  not  wise  enough  to 
hide  it,  let  himself  be  drawn  into  the  fight,  retaliated,  and 
proved  that  he  too  could  draw  blood  from  the  other.  Thus 
a  fierce  enmity  arose  between  the  two. 

The  result  might  have  been  foreseen.  Up  to  this  time 
Oerambault  had  been  inoffensive,  confining  himself  on  the 
whole  to  moral  dissertations.  His  polemic  did  not  step 
outside  the  circle  of  ideas.  It  might  as  well  have  been 
applied  to  Germany,  England,  or  ancient  Rome,  as  to 
the  France  of  today.  To  tell  the  truth,  like  nine-tenths 
of  his  class  and  profession,  he  was  ignorant  of  the  po- 
litical facts  about  which  he  declaimed,  so  that  his 
trumpetings  could  hardly  disturb  the  leaders  of  the 
day.  In  the  midst  of  the  tumult  of  the  press,  the  noisy 
passage  of  arms  between  Clerambault  and  Bertin  had  two 
consequences;  in  the  first  place  it  forced  Clerambault  to 
play  with  more  care,  and  choose  a  less  slippery  ground  than 
logomachy,  and  on  the  other  it  brought  him  in  contact  with 
men  better  informed  as  to  the  facts  who  furnished  him  with 
the  necessary  information.  A  short  time  before  there  had 
been  formed  in  France  a  little  society,  semi-clandestine,  for 
independent  study  and  free  criticism  on  the  war,  and  the 
causes  that  had  led  up  to  it.  The  Government,  always 
vigilant  and  ready  to  crush  any  attempt  at  freedom  of 
thought,  nevertheless  did  not  consider  this  society  dan- 
gerous. Its  members  were  prudent  and  calm,  men  of  let- 
ters before  all,  who  avoided  notoriety,  and  contented  them- 
selves with  private  discussion;  it  was  thought  better  policy 
to  keep  them  under  observation,  and  between  four  walls. 


154  CLERAMBAULT 

These  calculations  proved  to  be  wrong,  for  truth  mod- 
estly and  laboriously  discovered,  though  known  only  to  five 
or  six,  cannot  be  uprooted;  it  will  spring  from  the  earth 
with  irresistible  force.  Clerambault  now  learned  for  the 
first  time  of  the  existence  of  these  passionate  seekers  after 
truth,  who  recalled  the  times  of  the  Dreyfus  case.  In 
the  general  oppression,  their  apostolate  behind  closed  doors 
took  on  the  appearance  of  a  little  early-Christian  group  in 
the  catacombs.  Thanks  to  them,  he  discovered  the  false- 
hoods as  well  as  the  injustices  of  the  "  Great  War."  He 
had  had  a  faint  suspicion  of  them,  but  he  had  not  dreamed 
how  far  the  history  that  touches  us  most  closely  had  been 
falsified,  and  the  knowledge  revolted  him.  Even  in  his 
most  critical  moments,  his  simplicity  would  never  have 
imagined  the  deceptive  foundations  on  which  reposes  a 
Crusade  for  the  Right,  and  as  he  was  not  a  man  to  keep 
his  discovery  to  himself,  he  proclaimed  it  loudly,  first  in 
articles  which  were  forbidden  by  the  censor,  and  then  in 
the  shape  of  sarcastic  apologues,  or  little  symbolic  tales, 
touched  with  irony.  The  Voltairian  apologues  slipped 
through  sometimes,  owing  to  the  inattention  of  the  censor, 
and  in  this  way  Clerambault  was  marked  out  to  the  authori- 
ties as  a  very  dangerous  man. 

Those  who  thought  they  knew  him  best  were  surprised. 
His  adversaries  had  called  him  sentimental,  and  assuredly  so 
he  was,  but  he  was  aware  of  it,  and  because  he  was  French 
he  could  laugh  at  it,  and  at  himself.  It  is  all  very  well  for 
sentimental  Germans  to  have  a  thick-headed  belief  in  them- 
selves ;  deep  down  in  an  eloquent  and  sensitive  creature  like 
Clerambault,  the  vision  of  the  Gaul — always  alert  in  his 
thick  woods — observes,  lets  nothing  escape,  and  is  ready 
for  a  laugh  at  everything.  The  surprising  thing  is  that  this 
under-spirit  will  emerge  when  you  least  expect  it,  during 
the  darkest  trials  and  in  the  most  pressing  danger.  The 
imiversal  sense  of  humour  came  as  a  tonic  to  Clerambault, 


CXEIL\MBAULT  155 

and  his  character,  scarcely  freed  from  the  conventions  in 
which  it  had  been  bound,  took  on  suddenly  a  vital  com- 
plexity. Good,  tender,  combative,  irritable,  always  in  ex- 
tremes— he  knew  it,  and  that  made  him  worse — tearful, 
sarcastic,  sceptical,  yet  believing,  he  was  surprised  when  he 
saw  himself  in  the  mirror  of  his  writings.  All  his  vitality, 
hitherto  prudently  shut  into  his  bourgeois  life,  now  burst 
forth,  developed  by  moral  solitude  and  the  hygiene  of 
action. 

Clerambault  saw  that  he  had  not  known  himself;  he  was, 
as  it  were,  new-born,  since  that  night  of  anguish.  He 
learned  to  taste  a  joy  of  which  he  had  never  before  had 
an  idea — the  giddy  joy  of  the  free  lance  in  a  fight;  all 
his  senses  strung  like  a  bow,  glad  in  a  perfect  well-being. 


This  improved  state,  however,  brou^t  no  advantage  to 
Clerambault's  family;  his  wife's  share  of  the  struggle  was 
only  the  unpleasantness,  a  general  animosity  that  finally 
made  itself  felt  even  among  the  small  tradespeople  of  the 
neighbourhood.  Rosine  drooped ;  her  secret  heart-ache  wore 
upon  her  all  the  more  because  of  her  silence;  but  if  she  said 
nothing  her  mother  complained  enough  for  two.  She  made 
no  distinction  between  the  fools  who  affronted  her  and  the 
imprudent  Clerambault  who  caused  all  the  trouble;  so  that 
at  every  meal  there  were  awkward  remarks  meant  to  induce 
him  to  keep  still.  All  this  was  of  no  use,  reproaches 
whether  spoken  or  silent,  passed  over  his  head;  he  was 
sorry,  of  course,  but  he  had  thrown  himself  into  the  thick 
of  the  fight,  and  with  a  somewhat  childish  egotism  he 
thrust  aside  anything  that  interfered  with  this  new  interest. 

Circumstances,  however,  came  to  Madame  Clerambault's 
assistance;  an  old  relation  who  had  brought  her  up  died, 
leaving  her  little  property  in  Berry  to  the  Clerambaults. 
The  mourning  was  a  good  excuse  for  quitting  Paris,  which 
had  now  become  detestable,  and  for  tearing  the  poet  from  his 
dangerous  surroundings.  There  was  also  the  question  of 
money  and  of  Rosine,  who  would  be  better  for  change  of  air. 
Clerambault  gave  in,  and  they  all  three  went  to  take  posses- 
sion of  their  small  inheritance,  and  remained  in  Berry  during 
the  rest  of  the  summer  and  autumn.  It  was  in  the  country, 
a  respectable  old  house  just  outside  a  village.  From  the 
agitation  of  Paris  Clerambault  passed  at  once  to  a  stagnant 
calm,  and  in  the  long  silent  days  all  that  broke  the  monotony 
was  a  cock  crowing  in  a  farm-yard  or  a  cow  lowing  in  the 
meadow.  Clerambault  was  too  much  wrought  up  to  adapt 
himself  to  the  slow  and  placid  rhythm  of  nature;  formerly 

156 


CLERAMBAULT  157 

he  had  adored  it  and  was  in  harmony  with  the  country 
people  from  whom  his  family  had  come.  Now,  however, 
the  peasants  with  whom  he  tried  to  talk  seemed  to  him 
creatures  from  another  planet.  Certainly,  they  were  not 
infected  by  the  virus  of  war;  they  showed  no  emotion,  and 
no  hatred  for  the  enemy;  but  then  they  had  no  animosity 
either  against  war,  which  they  accepted  as  a  fact.  Certain 
keen,  good-natured  observations  showed  that  they  were  not 
taken  in  as  to  the  merits  of  the  case,  but  since  the  war 
was  there  they  made  the  most  they  could  out  of  it.  They 
might  lose  their  sons,  but  they  did  not  mean  to  lose  money; 
not  that  they  were  heartless,  grief  had  marked  them  deeply, 
though  they  spoke  little  of  it;  but  after  all,  men  pass  away, 
— the  land  is  always  there.  They  at  least  had  not,  like 
the  bourgeois  in  cities,  sent  their  children  to  death  through 
national  fanaticism.  Only  they  knew  how  to  get  something 
in  exchange  for  what  they  gave;  and  it  is  probable  that 
their  sons  would  have  thought  this  perfectly  natural.  Be- 
cause you  have  lost  someone  you  love,  must  you  lose  your 
head  too?  Our  peasants  did  not  lose  theirs;  it  is  said  that 
in  the  country  districts  of  France  more  than  a  million  new 
proprietors  have  been  made  by  the  war. 

The  mind  of  Clerambault  was  alien  to  all  this;  he  and 
these  people  did  not  speak  the  same  language.  They  ex- 
changed some  vague  condolences,  but  when  he  is  talking 
to  a  bourgeois  a  peasant  always  complains;  it  is  a  habit, 
a  way  of  defending  himself  against  a  possible  appeal  to 
his  pocketbook;  they  would  have  talked  in  the  same  way 
about  an  epidemic  of  fever.  Clerambault  was  always  the 
Parisian  in  their  eyes;  he  belonged  to  another  tribe,  and 
if  they  had  thoughts,  they  would  not  tell  them  to  him. 

This  lack  of  response  stifled  Clerambault's  words;  im- 
pressionable as  he  was,  he  could  no  longer  hear  himself. 
All  was  silence;  he  had  friends  unknown,  and  at  a  distance, 
who  tried  to  communicate  with  him,  but  their  voices  were 


158  CLERAMBAULT 

intercepted  by  postal  spies — one  of  the  disgraces  of  our 
time.  On  the  pretext  of  suppressing  foreign  espionage,  our 
Government  made  spies  of  its  own  citizens,  and  not  content 
with  a  watch  on  politics,  it  violated  a  man's  thoughts,  and 
taught  its  agents  how  to  listen  at  doors  like  lackeys. 
The  premium  thus  put  on  baseness  filled  this  country — and 
all  the  others — with  volunteer  detectives,  gentlemen,  men 
of  letters,  many  of  them  slackers,  who  bought  their  own 
security  with  the  safety  of  others,  calling  their  denuncia- 
tions by  the  name  of  patriotism. 

Thanks  to  these  informers,  those  of  liberal  opinions  could 
not  get  in  touch  with  one  another;  that  great  monster, 
the  State — ^pricked  by  its  bad  conscience — suspected  and 
feared  half  a  dozen  liberal-minded  people,  alone,  weak,  and 
destitute;  and  each  one  of  these  liberals  surrounded  by 
spies,  ate  his  heart  out  in  his  jail,  and  ignorant  that  others 
suffered  with  him,  felt  himself  slowly  dying,  freezing  in  the 
polar  ice  of  his  despair. 

Clerambault  was  too  hot-blooded  to  let  himself  be  buried 
under  this  snowy  shroud;  but  the  soul  is  not  all,  the  body 
is  a  plant  which  needs  human  soil.  Deprived  of  sympathy, 
reduced  to  feed  on  itself,  it  perishes.  In  vain  did  Cler- 
ambault try  to  prove  to  himself  that  millions  of  other  minds 
were  in  agreement  with  his  own;  it  could  not  replace  the 
actual  contact  with  one  living  heart.  Faith  is  sufficient  for 
the  spirit,  but  the  heart  is  like  Thomas,  it  must  touch  to  be 
convinced. 

Clerambault  had  not  foreseen  this  physical  weakness;  he 
felt  stifled,  his  body  seemed  on  fire,  his  skin  burning,  his 
life  seemed  to  be  drying  up  at  the  source.  It  was  as  if  he 
were  under  an  exhausted  vacuum-bell.  A  wall  kept  him 
from  the  air. 

One  evening,  like  a  consumptive  after  a  bad  day,  he  had 
been  wandering  about  the  house  from  room  to  room,  as  if 
in  search  of  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  when  a  letter  came  that 


CXERAMBAULT  I5gf 

had  somehow  slipped  through  the  meshes  of  the  net.  An 
old  man  like  himself,  a  village  schoolmaster  in  a  remote 
valley  of  Dauphiny  wrote  thus: 

"  The  war  has  taken  everything  from  me;  of  those  whom 
I  used  to  know,  some  have  been  killed,  and  the  rest  are  so 
altered  that  I  hardly  recognise  them.  They  have  trampled 
on  all  that  made  life  worth  having  to  me;  my  hope  of 
progress,  my  faith  in  a  future  of  brotherly  reason. 

"  I  was  ready  to  die  in  my  despair,  when  a  paper  in  which 
you  were  spoken  of  insultingly,  drew  my  attention  to  your 
articles:  To  the  Dead  and  To  Her  Whom  We  Loved. 
I  wept  with  joy  as  I  read  them;  I  am  not  then  left  alone 
to  suffer?  I  am  not  solitary? — You  do  believe;  then,  my 
dear  Sir,  tell  me  that  you  still  have  faith  in  these  things. 
They  really  exist,  and  cannot  be  destroyed?  I  must  tell 
you  how  much  good  it  does  me  to  know  that;  for  I  had 
begun  to  doubt.  You  must  forgive  me,  but  I  am  old  and 
alone  and  very  weary.  .  .  .  God  bless  you,  Sir!  I  can  die 
in  peace,  now  that,  thanks  to  you,  I  know  that  I  have  not 
been  deceived." 

Instantly  it  was  as  if  a  window  had  been  opened  to  the 
air;  Clerambault's  lungs  were  filled,  his  heart  beat  strongly 
again,  life  seemed  to  be  renewed,  and  to  flow  once  more  in 
a  full  channel.  How  deep  is  the  need  we  have  of  love  from 
one  another!  ...  A  hand  stretched  out  in  the  hour  of 
my  agony  makes  me  feel  that  I  am  not  a  branch  torn  from 
the  tree,  but  a  living  part  of  it;  we  save  each  other.  I 
give  my  strength,  which  would  be  nothing  if  it  were  not 
taken.  Truth  alone  is  like  a  spark  struck  from  a  stone; 
dry,  harsh,  ephemeral.  Will  it  die  out?  No,  for  it  has 
kindled  another  soul,  and  a  new  star  has  risen  on  the 
horizon. 


The  new  star  was  seen  but  for  a  few  moments,  then  a 
cloud  covered  it,  and  it  vanished  forever. 

Clerambault  wrote  the  same  day  to  his  unknown  friend, 
telling  him  effusively  of  all  his  trials  and  dangerous 
opinions,  but  no  answer  came.  Some  weeks  later,  Cleram- 
bault wrote  again,  but  without  success.  Such  was  his  long- 
ing for  a  friend  with  whom  to  share  his  troubles  and  his 
hopes  that  he  took  the  train  to  Grenoble,  and  from  there 
made  his  way  on  foot  to  the  village  of  which  he  had  the 
address;  but  when,  joyful  with  the  surprise  he  brought,  he 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  schoolhouse,  the  man  who 
opened  it  evidently  understood  nothing  of  his  errand.  After 
some  explanation  it  appeared  that  this  was  a  newcomer  in 
the  village;  that  his  predecessor  had  been  dismissed  in  dis- 
grace a  month  before  and  ordered  to  a  distance,  but  that 
the  trouble  of  the  journey  had  been  spared  him,  for  he  had 
died  of  pneumonia  the  day  before  he  was  to  have  left  the 
place  where  he  had  lived  for  thirty  years.  He  was  there 
still,  but  under  the  ground.  Clerambault  saw  the  cross 
over  the  newly-made  moimd,  but  he  never  knew  if  his  lost 
friend  had  at  least  received  his  words  of  sympathy.  It 
was  better  for  him  to  remain  in  doubt,  for  the  letters  had 
never  reached  their  destination;  even  this  gleam  of  light 
had  been  denied  to  the  poor  old  schoolmaster. 

The  end  of  this  summer  in  Berry  was  one  of  the  most 
arid  periods  in  Clerambault's  life.  He  talked  with  no  one, 
he  wrote  nothing  and  he  had  no  way  of  communicating 
directly  with  the  working  people.  He  had  always  made 
himself  liked  on  the  rare  occasions  on  which  he  had  come 
into  contact  with  them — in  a  crowd,  on  holidays,  or  in 
the  workingmen's  schools;  but  shyness  on  both  sides  held 

i6q 


CXERAMBAULT  i6i 

him  back.  EacH  felt  his  inferiority;  with  pride  on  the 
one  hand,  and  awkwardness  on  the  other,  for  Clerambault 
knew  that  in  many  essential  respects,  he  was  inferior  to  the 
intelligent  workman.  He  was  right;  for  from  their  ranks 
will  be  recruited  the  leaders  of  the  future.  The  best  class 
of  these  men  contained  many  honest  and  virile  minds  able 
to  understand  Clerambault.  With  an  untouched  idealism 
they  still  kept  a  firm  hold  on  reality,  and  though  their 
daily  life  had  accustomed  them  to  struggles,  disappoint- 
ments, and  treachery,  they  were  trained  to  patience;  young 
as  some  of  them  were,  they  were  veterans  of  the  social 
war,  and  there  was  much  that  they  could  have  taught  Cler- 
ambault. They  knew  that  everything  is  for  sale,  that  noth- 
ing is  to  be  had  for  nothing,  that  those  who  desire  the 
future  happiness  of  men  must  pay  the  price  now,  in  their 
own  sufferings;  that  the  smallest  progress  is  gained  step 
by  step  and  is  lost  often  twenty  times  before  it  is  finally 
conquered.  There  is  nothing  final  in  this  world.  These 
men,  solid  and  patient  as  the  earth,  would  have  been  of 
great  use  to  Clerambault,  and  his  vivid  intelligence  would 
have  been  like  a  ray  of  sunshine  to  them. 

Unfortunately  both  he  and  they  had  to  bear  the  results 
of  the  archaic  caste  system;  injurious  as  it  is  and  fatal 
to  the  community  not  less  than  to  the  individual,  raising 
between  the  pretended  equals  of  our  so-called  "  democ- 
racies "  the  excessive  inequality  of  fortune,  education,  and 
life.  Journalists  supply  the  only  means  of  communication 
between  caste  and  caste,  and  they  form  a  caste  by  them- 
selves, representing  neither  the  one  side  nor  the  other. 
The  voice  of  the  newspapers  alone  now  broke  the  silence 
that  surrounded  Clerambault,  and  nothing  could  stop  their 
"  Brekekekex,  coax,  coax." 

The  disastrous  results  of  a  new  offensive  found  them,  as 
always,  bravely  at  their  post.  Once  more  the  optimist 
oracles  of  the  pontiffs  of  the  rear-guard  were  proved  to  be 


i62  CLERAMBAULT 

wrong,  but  no  one  seemed  to  notice  it.  Other  prophecies 
succeeded,  and  were  given  out  and  swallowed  with  the  same 
assurance.  Neither  those  who  wrote,  nor  those  who  read, 
saw  that  they  had  deceived  themselves;  in  all  sincerity  they 
did  not  know  it;  they  did  not  remember  what  they  had 
written  the  day  before.  What  can  you  expect  from  such 
feather-headed  creatures  who  do  not  know  if  they  are  on 
their  heads  or  their  heels?  But  it  must  be  allowed  that 
they  know  how  to  fall  on  their  feet  after  one  of  their  somer- 
saults. One  conviction  a  day  is  enough  for  them;  and 
what  does  the  quality  matter,  since  they  are  fresh  every 
hour? 

Towards  the  end  of  the  autumn,  in  order  to  keep  up  the 
morale  which  sank  before  the  sadness  of  the  coming  winter, 
the  press  started  a  new  propaganda  against  German  atroci- 
ties; it  "went  across"  perfectly,  and  the  thermometer  of 
public  opinion  rose  to  fever  heat.  Even  in  the  placid  Berry 
village  for  several  weeks  all  sorts  of  cruel  things  were  said; 
the  cure  took  part  and  preached  a  sermon  on  vengeance. 
Clerambault  heard  this  from  his  wife  at  breakfast  and  said 
plainly  what  he  thought  of  it  before  the  servant  who  was 
waiting  at  table.  The  whole  village  knew  that  he  was  a 
boche  before  night;  and  every  morning  after  that  he  could 
read  it  written  up  on  his  front  door.  Madame  Cleram- 
bault's  temper  was  not  improved  by  this,  and  Rosine,  who 
had  taken  to  religion  in  the  disappointment  of  her  young 
love,  was  too  much  occupied  with  her  unhappy  soul  and 
its  experiences  to  think  of  the  troubles  of  others.  The 
sweetest  natures  have  times  when  they  are  simply  and 
absolutely  selfish. 


Lett  to  himself  alone,  deprived  of  the  means  of  action, 
Clerambault  turned  his  heated  thoughts  back  on  himself. 
Nothing  now  held  him  from  the  path  of  harsh  truth;  there 
was  nothing  between  him  and  its  cold  light.  His  soul  was 
shrivelled  like  those  fuorusciti  who,  thrown  from  the 
walls  of  the  cruel  city,  gaze  at  it  from  without  with  faith- 
less eyes.  It  was  no  longer  the  sad  vision  of  the  first  night 
of  his  trials,  when  his  bleeding  wounds  still  linked  him  with 
other  men;  all  ties  were  now  broken,  as  with  open  eyes 
his  spirit  sank  down  whirling  into  the  abyss;  the  slow 
descent  into  hell,  from  cu-cle  to  circle,  alone  in  the  silence. 

"  I  see  you,  you  myriads  of  herded  peoples,  hugging 
together  perforce  in  shoals  to  spawn  and  to  think!  Each 
group  of  you,  like  the  bees,  has  a  special  sacred  odour  of 
its  own.  The  stench  of  the  queen-bee  makes  the  unity  of 
the  hive  and  gives  joy  to  the  labour  of  the  bees.  As  with 
the  ants,  whosoever  does  not  stink  like  me,  I  kill!  0  you 
bee-hives  of  men!  each  of  you  has  its  own  peculiar  smell 
of  race,  religion,  morals  and  approved  tradition;  it  impreg- 
nates your  bodies,  your  wax,  the  brood-comb  of  your  hives ; 
it  permeates  your  entire  lives  from  birth  to  death;  and  woe 
to  him  who  would  wash  himself  clean  of  it. 

*'  He  who  would  sense  the  mustiness  of  this  swarm- 
thinking,  the  night-sweat  of  a  hallucinated  people,  should 
look  back  at  the  rites  and  beliefs  of  ancient  history. 
Let  him  ask  the  quizzical  Herodotus  to  unroll  for  him  the 
film  of  human  wanderings,  the  long  panorama  of  social 
customs,  sometimes  ignoble  or  ridiculous,  but  always  ven- 
erated; of  the  Scythians,  the  Gatae,  the  Issedones,  the  Gin- 

163 


1 64  CLERAMBAULT 

dares,  the  Nasamones,  the  Sauromates,  the  Lydians,  the 
Lj^bians,  and  the  Egj^ptians;  bipeds  of  all  colours,  from 
East  to  West  and  from  North  to  South.  The  Great  King, 
who  was  a  man  of  wit,  asked  the  Greeks,  who  burn  their 
dead,  to  eat  them;  and  the  Hindoos,  who  eat  them,  to  burn 
them,  and  was  much  amused  by  their  indignation.  The 
wise  Herodotus  who  doffs  his  cap,  though  he  may  grin 
behind  it,  will  not  judge  them  himself  and  does  not 
think  it  fair  to  laugh  at  them.  He  says:  '  If  it  were  pro- 
posed to  all  men  to  choose  between  the  best  laws  of  dif- 
ferent nations,  each  one  would  give  the  preference  to  his 
own;  so  true  it  is  that  every  man  is  convinced  that  his  own 
country  is  the  best.  Nothing  can  be  truer  than  the  words 
of  Pindar:  Custom  is  the  Sovereign  of  all  men.' 

"  It  is  true  everyone  must  drink  out  of  his  own  trough,  but 
you  would  at  least  think  that  we  would  allow  others  to  do 
likewise;  but  not  at  all,  we  cannot  enjoy  our  own  without 
spitting  in  that  of  our  neighbours.  It  is  the  will  of  God, — 
for  a  god  we  must  have  in  some  shape,  in  that  of  man  or 
beast,  or  even  of  a  thing,  a  black  or  red  line  as  in  the 
Middle  Ages, — a  blackbird,  a  crow,  a  blazon  of  some  kind; 
we  must  have  something  on  which  to  throw  the  responsi- 
bility of  our  insanities. 

"  Now  that  the  coat-of-arms  has  been  superseded  by  the 
flag,  we  declare  that  we  are  freed  from  superstitions!  But 
at  what  time  were  they  darker  than  they  are  now?  Under 
our  new  doctrine  of  equality  we  are  all  obliged  to  smell 
exactly  alike.  We  are  not  even  free  to  say  that  we  are  not 
free;  that  would  be  sacrilege!  With  the  pack  on  our  back 
we  must  bawl  out:  'Liberty  forever!  '  Under  the  orders 
of  her  father,  the  daughter  of  Cheops  made  herself  a  harlot 
that  she  might  contribute  by  her  body  to  the  building  of 
the  pyramid.  And  now  to  raise  the  pyramids  of  our  mas- 
sive republics,  millions  of  citizens  prostitute  their  con- 
sciences and  themselves,  body  and  soul,  to  falsehood  and 


CLERAISIBAULT  165 

hate.  We  have  become  past  masters  in  the  great  art  of 
lying.  True,  it  was  always  known,  but  the  difference  be- 
tween us  and  our  forefathers  is  that  they  knew  themselves 
to  be  liars,  and  were  not  far  from  admitting  it  in  their 
simple  way;  it  was  a  necessity  of  nature — they  relieved 
themselves  before  the  passers-by,  as  you  see  men  do  to-day 
in  the  South.  .  .  .  '  I  shall  lie,'  said  Darius,  innocently. 
"  One  should  not  be  too  scrupulous  when  it  is  useful  to  tell 
a  lie.  Those  who  speak  the  truth  want  the  same  thing  as 
those  who  tell  falsehoods.  We  do  so  in  the  hope  of  gaining 
some  advantage,  and  we  are  truthful  for  the  same  reason 
and  that  people  may  feel  confidence  in  us.  Thus,  though 
we  may  not  follow  the  same  road,  we  are  all  aiming  at  the 
same  thing,  for  if  there  were  naught  to  gain,  a  truth-teller 
would  be  equally  ready  to  lie,  and  a  liar  to  tell  the  truth.' — 
We,  my  dear  contemporaries,  are  more  modest;  we  do  not 
look  on  at  each  other  tellinp  falsehoods  on  the  curb.  It 
must  be  done  behind  four  walls.  We  lie  to  ourselves,  and 
we  never  confess  it,  not  even  to  our  innermost  selves.  No, 
we  do  not  lie,  we  '  idealise.'  .  .  .  Come,  let  us  see  your 
eyes,  and  let  them  see  clearly,  if  you  are  free  men! 

"  Free!  What  are  you  free  from,  and  which  of  you  is  free 
in  your  countries  today?  Are  you  free  to  act?  No,  since 
the  State  disposes  of  your  life,  so  that  you  must  either 
assassinate  others  or  be  yourselves  assassinated.  Are  you 
free  to  speak  or  to  write?  No,  for  they  imprison  you  if 
you  dare  to  speak  your  mind.  Can  you  even  think  for 
yourselves?  Not  unless  it  is  sub  rosa — and  the  bottom  of 
a  cellar  is  none  too  secure. 

Be  silent  and  wary,  for  there  are  sharp  eyes  on  you. 
...  To  keep  you  from  action  there  are  sentries,  cor- 
porals with  stripes  on  their  arms,  and  sentries,  too,  over 
your  minds;  churches  and  universities  that  prescribe  what 
you  may  believe,  and  what  you  may  not.  .  .  .  What  do 
you  complain  of,  they  say,  even  if  you  are  not  complaining. 


i66  CLERAMBAULT 

You  must  not  fatigue  your  mind  by  thinking;  repeat  your 
catechism! 

"  Are  we  not  told  that  this  catechism  was  freely  agreed  to 
by  the  sovereign  people? — ^A  fine  sovereignty,  truly!  Idiots, 
who  puff  out  your  cheeks  over  the  word  Democracy!  De- 
mocracy is  the  art  of  usurping  the  people's  place,  of  shear- 
ing their  wool  off  closely,  in  this  holy  name,  for  the  benefit 
of  some  of  Democracy's  good  apostles.  In  peace  times  the 
people  only  know  what  goes  on  through  the  press,  which  is 
bought  and  told  what  to  say  by  those  whose  interest  it  is  to 
hoodwink  the  public,  while  the  truth  is  kept  under  lock  and 
key.  In  war  time  it  is  even  better,  for  then  it  is  the  people 
themselves  who  are  locked  up.  Allowing  that  they  have 
ever  known  what  they  wanted,  it  is  no  longer  possible  for 
them  to  speak  above  their  breath.  Obey.  Perinde  ac 
cadaver.  .  .  .  Ten  millions  of  corpses.  .  .  .  The  living 
are  hardly  better  off,  depressed  as  they  are  by  four  years 
of  sham  patriotism,  circus-parades,  tom-toms,  threats,  brag- 
gings, hatreds,  informers,  trials  for  treason,  and  summary 
executions.  The  demagogues  have  called  in  all  the  reserves 
of  obscurantism  to  extinguish  the  last  gleams  of  good  sense 
that  lingered  in  the  people,  and  to  reduce  them  to  im- 
becility. 

"  It  is  not  enough  to  debase  them;  they  must  be  so  stupe- 
fied that  they  wish  to  be  debased.  The  formidable  autoc- 
racies of  Egypt,  Persia,  and  Syria,  made  playthings  of  the 
lives  of  millions  of  men;  and  the  secret  of  their  power  lay 
in  the  supernatural  light  of  their  pseudo-divinity.  From 
the  extreme  limit  of  the  ages  of  credulity,  every  absolute 
monarchy  has  been  a  theocracy.  In  our  democracies,  how- 
ever, it  is  impossible  to  believe  in  the  divinity  of  humbugs, 
shaky  and  discredited,  like  some  of  our  moth-eaten  Min- 
isters; we  are  too  close  to  them,  we  know  their  dirty  tricks, 
so  they  have  invented  the  idea  of  concealing  God  behind 
their  drop-curtain;  God  means  the  Republic,  the  Country, 


CLERAMBAULT  167 

Justice,  Civilisation;  the  names  are  painted  up  on  the  out- 
side. Each  booth  at  the  fair  displays  in  huge  many-coloured 
posters,  the  picture  of  its  Beautiful  Giantess;  millions  crowd 
around  to  see  it,  but  they  do  not  tell  us  what  they  think 
when  they  come  out.  Perhaps  they  found  it  difficult  to 
think  at  all!  Some  stay  inside  and  others  have  seen  noth- 
ing. But  those  who  stand  in  front  of  the  stage  gaping,  they 
know  God  is  there  for  they  have  seen  His  picture.  The 
wish  that  we  have  to  believe  in  Him — that  is  the  god  of 
each  one  of  us. 

"  Why  does  this  desire  flame  up  so  furiously?  Because  we 
do  not  want  to  see  the  truth — and  therefore  because  we  do 
see  it.  Therein  lies  the  tragedy  of  humanity;  it  refuses  to 
see  and  know.  As  a  last  resort,  it  is  forced  to  find  divinity 
in  the  mire.  Let  us,  on  our  part,  dare  to  look  the  truth 
in  the  face. 

"  The  instinct  of  murder  is  deeply  engraved  in  the  heart 
of  nature.  It  is  a  truly  devilish  instinct,  since  it  seems  to 
have  created  beings  not  only  to  eat,  but  to  be  eaten.  One 
species  of  cormorants  eats  fishes.  The  fishermen  exterminate 
the  birds.  And  the  fish  disappear,  because  they  fed  on  the 
excrement  of  the  birds  who  devoured  them.  Thus  the  chain 
of  beings  is  like  a  serpent  eating  his  own  tail.  ...  If  only 
we  were  not  sentient  beings,  did  not  witness  our  own  tor- 
tures, we  might  escape  from  this  hell.  There  are  two  ways 
only:  that  of  Buddha,  who  effaced  within  himself  the  pain- 
ful illusion  of  life;  and  the  religious  way,  which  throws  the 
veil  of  a  dazzling  falsehood  over  crime  and  sorrow.  Those 
who  devour  others  are  said  to  be  the  chosen  people  who  work 
for  God.  The  weight  of  sin,  thrown  into  one  of  the  scales 
of  life,  finds  its  counterpoise  beyond  in  the  dream  where  all 
wounds  and  sorrows  are  to  be  cured.  The  form  of  the  be- 
yond varies  from  people  to  people  and  from  time  to  time, 
and  these  variations  are  called  Progress,  though  it  is  always 
the  same  need  of  illusion.    Our  terrible  consciousness  insists 


i68  CLERAMBAULT 

on  seeing  and  reckoning  with  the  unjust  law;  for  if  we  do 
not  give  it  something  to  bite  on,  fill  its  maw  somehow,  it 
will  howl  with  hunger  and  fear,  crying  out:  *I  must  have 
belief  or  death!  '  And  that  is  why  we  go  in  flocks;  for 
security,  to  make  a  common  certainty  out  of  our  individual 
doubts. 

"  What  have  we  to  do  with  truth?  Most  men  think  that 
truth  is  the  Adversary.  Of  course  they  do  not  say  this, 
but  by  a  tacit  agreement  what  they  call  truth  is  a  sickening 
mixture  of  much  falsehood  and  very  little  truth,  which 
serves  to  paint  over  the  lie  so  that  we  get  deceit  and  eternal 
slavery.  Not  the  monuments  of  faith  and  love  are  the  most 
durable,  those  of  servitude  last  much  longer.  Rheims  and 
the  Parthenon  fall  to  ruins,  but  the  Pyramids  of  Egypt 
defy  the  ages;  all  about  them  is  the  desert,  its  mirages  and 
its  moving  sand.  When  I  think  of  the  millions  of  souls 
swallowed  up  by  the  spirit  of  slavery  in  the  course  of  cen- 
turies— ^heretics,  revolutionists,  rebels  lay  and  clerical, — I 
am  no  longer  surprised  at  the  mediocrity  that  spreads  like 
greasy  water  over  the  world. 

We  who  have  so  far  kept  our  heads  above  the  gloomy 
surface,  what  are  we  to  do  in  face  of  the  implacable  uni- 
verse, where  the  stronger  eternally  crushes  the  weaker,  and 
is  crushed  by  a  stronger  yet,  in  his  turn?  Shall  we  resign 
ourselves  to  a  voluntary  sacrifice  through  pity  or  weariness? 
Or  shall  we  join  in  and  cut  the  throats  of  the  weak,  with- 
out the  shadow  of  an  illusion  as  to  the  blind  cosmic  cruelty? 
What  choice  is  left,  but  to  try  to  keep  out  of  the  struggle 
through  selfishness — or  wisdom,  which  is  another  form  of 
the  same  thing?  " 

In  the  crisis  of  acute  pessimism  which  had  seized  upon 
Clerambault  during  these  months  of  inhuman  isolation,  he 
could  not  contemplate  even  the  possibility  of  progress ;  that 
progress  in  which  he  had  once  believed,  as  men  do  in  God. 


CLERAMBAULT  169 

The  human  species  now  appeared  to  him  as  devoted  to  a 
murderous  destiny.  After  having  ravaged  the  planet  and 
exterminated  other  species,  it  was  now  to  be  destroyed  by 
its  own  hands.  It  is  the  law  of  justice.  Man  only  became 
ruler  of  the  world  by  treachery  and  force  (above  all  by 
treachery).  Those  more  noble  than  he  have  perhaps — or 
certainly — fallen  under  his  blows;  he  has  destroyed  some, 
degraded  and  brutalised  others.  During  the  thousands  of 
years  in  which  he  has  shared  life  with  other  beings,  he  has 
feigned — falsely — not  to  comprehend  them,  not  to  see  them 
as  brothers,  suffering,  loving,  and  dreaming  like  himself. 
In  order  to  exploit  them,  to  torture  them  without  remorse, 
his  men  of  thought  have  told  him  that  these  creatures  can- 
not think,  that  he  alone  possesses  this  gift.  And  now  he  is 
not  far  from  saying  the  same  thing  of  his  fellow-men  whom 
he  dismembers  and  destroys.  Butcher,  murderer,  you  have 
had  no  pity,  why  should  you  implore  it  for  yourself 
today?  .   .   . 


Of  all  the  old  friendships  that  had  once  surrounded 
Clerambault,  one  only  remained,  his  friendship  with 
Madame  Mairet,  whose  husband  had  been  killed  in  the 
Argonne. 

Frangois  Mairet  was  not  quite  forty  years  old  when  he 
met  with  an  obscure  death  in  the  trenches.  He  was  one  of 
the  foremost  French  biologists,  an  unpretending  scholar 
and  hard  worker,  a  patient  spirit.  But  celebrity  was 
assured  to  him  before  long,  though  he  was  in  no  haste  to 
welcome  the  meretricious  charmer,  as  her  favours  have  to 
be  shared  with  too  many  wire-pullers.  The  silent  joys  that 
intimacy  with  science  bestows  on  her  elect  were  sufficient 
for  him,  with  only  one  heart  on  earth  to  taste  them  with 
him.  His  wife  shared  all  his  thoughts.  She  came  of  a 
scholarly  family,  was  rather  younger  than  he;  one  of  those 
serious,  loving,  weak,  yet  proud  hearts,  that  must  give  but 
only  give  themselves  once.  Her  existence  was  bound  up 
in  Mairet's  interests.  Perhaps  she  would  have  shared  the 
life  of  another  man  equally  well,  if  circumstances  had  been 
different,  but  she  had  married  Mairet  with  everything  that 
was  his.  Like  many  of  the  best  of  women,  her  intelligence 
was  quick  to  understand  the  man  whom  her  heart  had 
chosen.  She  had  begun  by  being  his  pupil,  and  became 
his  partner,  helping  in  his  work  and  in  his  laboratory  re- 
searches. They  had  no  children  and  had  every  thought  in 
common,  both  of  them  being  freethinkers,  with  high  ideals, 
destitute  of  religion,  as  well  as  of  any  national  superstition. 

In  19 14  Mairet  was  mobilised,  and  went  simply  as  a  duty, 
without  any  illusions  as  to  the  cause  that  he  was  called 
upon  to  serve  by  the  accidents  of  time  and  country.    His 

170 


CLERAMBAULT  171 

letters  from  the  front  were  clear  and  stoical;  he  had  never 
ceased  to  see  the  ignominy  of  the  war.  But  he  felt  obliged 
to  sacrifice  himself  in  obedience  to  fate,  which  had  made 
him  a  part  of  the  errors,  the  sufferings,  and  the  confused 
struggles  of  an  unfortunate  animal  species  slowly  evolving 
towards  an  unknown  end. 

His  family  and  the  Clerambaults  had  known  each  other 
in  the  country,  before  either  of  them  were  transplanted  to 
Paris;  this  acquaintance  formed  the  basis  of  an  amicable 
intercourse,  solid  rather  than  intimate — for  Mairet  opened 
his  heart  to  no  one  but  his  wife — but  resting  on  an  esteem 
that  nothing  could  shake. 

They  had  not  corresponded  since  the  beginning  of  the 
war;  each  had  been  too  much  absorbed  by  his  own  troubles. 
Men  who  went  to  fight  did  not  scatter  their  letters  among 
their  friends,  but  generally  concentrated  on  one  person 
whom  they  loved  best,  and  to  whom  they  told  everything. 
Mairet's  wife,  as  always,  was  his  only  confidante.  His 
letters  were  a  journal  in  which  he  thought  aloud ;  and  in  one 
of  the  last  he  spoke  of  Clerambault.  He  had  seen  extracts 
from  his  first  articles  in  some  of  the  nationalist  papers 
which  were  the  only  ones  allowed  at  the  front,  where 
they  were  quoted  with  insulting  comments.  He  spoke  of 
them  to  his  wife,  saying  what  comfort  he  had  found  in 
these  words  of  an  honest  man  driven  to  speak  out,  and  he 
begged  her  to  let  Clerambault  know  that  his  old  friendship 
for  him  was  now  all  the  warmer  and  closer.  He  also  asked 
Madame  Mairet  to  send  him  the  succeeding  articles,  but  he 
died  before  they  could  reach  him. 

When  he  was  gone  the  woman,  who  had  lived  only  for 
him,  tried  to  draw  nearer  to  the  people  who  had  been  near 
to  him  in  the  last  days  of  his  life.  She  wrote  to  Clerambault, 
and  he,  who  was  eating  his  heart  out  in  his  provincial  re- 
treat, lacking  even  the  energy  to  get  away,  welcomed  her 
letter  as  a  deliverance.    He  returned  at  once  to  Paris;  and 


172  CLERAMBAULT 

they  both  found  a  bitter  joy  in  evoking  together  the  image 
of  the  absent.  They  formed  the  habit  of  meeting  on  one 
evening  in  the  week,  when  they  would,  so  to  speak,  immerse 
themselves  in  recollections  of  him.  Clerambault  was  the 
only  one  of  his  friends  who  could  understand  the  tragedy 
hidden  under  a  sacrifice  gilded  by  no  patriotic  illusion. 

At  first  Madame  Mairet  seemed  to  find  comfort  in  show- 
ing all  that  she  had  received;  she  read  his  letters,  full  of 
disenchanted  confidences;  they  reflected  on  them  with  deep 
emotion,  and  she  brought  them  into  the  discussion  of  the 
problems  that  had  caused  the  death  of  Mairet  and  of  mil- 
lions of  others.  In  this  keen  analysis,  nothing  stopped  Cler- 
ambault ;  and  she  was  not  a  woman  to  hesitate  in  the  search 
for  truth.     But  nevertheless  .    .    . 

Clerambault  soon  became  aware  that  his  words  made 
her  uneasy,  though  he  was  only  saying  aloud  things  that  she 
knew  well  and  that  were  strongly  confirmed  by  Mairet's 
letters,  namely,  the  criminal  futility  of  these  deaths,  and 
the  sterility  of  all  this  heroism.  She  tried  to  take  back  her 
confidences,  or  even  to  minimise  the  meaning  of  them,  with 
an  eagerness  that  did  not  seem  perfectly  sincere.  She 
brought  to  mind  sayings  of  her  husband's  which  apparently 
showed  him  more  in  sympathy  with  general  opinion,  and 
implied  that  he  approved  of  it.  One  day  Clerambault  was 
listening  while  she  read  a  letter  which  she  had  read  to  him 
before.  He  noticed  that  she  skipped  a  phrase  in  which 
Mairet  expressed  his  heroic  pessimism,  and  when  he  re- 
marked on  it  she  appeared  vexed.  After  this,  her  manner 
became  more  distant,  her  annoyance  passed  into  coldness, 
then  irritation,  till  it  even  grew  into  a  sort  of  smothered 
hostility,  and  finally  she  avoided  him,  though  without  an 
open  rupture.  Clerambault  felt  that  she  had  a  grudge 
against  him  and  that  he  should  see  no  more  of  her. 

The  truth  was  that,  at  the  same  time  that  Clerambault 
pursued  his  relentless  analysis  which  struck  at  the  founda- 


CLERAMBAULT  173 

tions  of  current  beliefs,  an  inverse  process  of  reconstruction 
and  idealisation  was  going  on  in  the  mind  of  Madame 
Mairet.  Her  grief  longed  to  convince  itself  that  after  all 
there  had  been  a  holy  cause,  and  the  dead  man  was  no 
longer  there  to  help  her  to  bear  the  truth.  Where  two 
stand  together  there  may  be  joy  in  the  most  terrible  truths, 
but  when  one  is  alone  they  are  mortal. 

Clerambault  understood  it  all,  and  his  quick  sympathies 
warned  him  of  the  pain  he  caused  and  shared ;  for  he  made 
the  suffering  of  this  woman  his  own.  He  nearly  reached 
the  point  of  approving  her  revolt  against  himself,  for  he 
knew  her  deep  hidden  sorrow,  and  that  the  truth  that  he 
brought  was  powerless  to  help  it — still  worse,  it  added  one 
evil  more.  .   .   . 

Insoluble  problem!  Those  who  are  bereaved  cannot  dis- 
pense with  the  murderous  delusions  of  which  they  are  the 
victims,  and  if  these  are  torn  away  their  suffering  becomes 
intolerable.  Families  that  have  lost  sons,  husbands,  and 
fathers,  must  needs  believe  that  it  was  for  a  just  and  holy 
cause,  and  statesmen  are  forced  to  continue  to  deceive  them- 
selves and  others.  For  if  this  were  to  cease,  life  would  be 
insupportable  to  themselves  and  to  those  whom  they  govern. 
How  unfortunate  is  Man;  he  is  the  prey  of  his  own  ideas, 
has  given  up  everything  to  them,  and  finds  that  each  day 
he  must  continue  to  give  more,  lest  the  gulf  open  under 
his  feet  and  he  be  swallowed  up  in  it.  After  four  years 
of  unheard-of  pain  and  ruin,  can  we  possibly  admit  that 
it  was  all  for  nothing?  That  not  only  our  victory  will  be 
more  ruinous  still,  but  that  we  ought  not  to  have  expected 
anything  else;  that  the  war  was  absurd,  and  we,  self- 
deceivers?  .  .  .  Never!  we  would  rather  die  to  the  last 
man.  When  one  man  finds  that  he  has  thrown  away  his 
life,  he  sinks  down  in  despair.  What  would  it  be  in  the 
case  of  a  nation,  of  ten  nations,  or  of  civilisation  as  a 
whole?  .   .   . 


174  CLERAMBAULT 

Clerambault  heard  the  cry  that  went  up  from  the  multi- 
tude: "Life,  at  any  cost!     Save  us,  no  matter  how!  " 

"  But,  you  do  not  know  how  to  save  yourselves.  The 
road  you  follow  only  leads  on  to  fresh  catastrophes,  to  an 
infinite  mass  of  suffering." 

"  No  matter  how  frightful  they  are,  not  as  bad  as  what 
you  offer  us.  Let  us  die  with  our  illusions,  rather  than  live 
without  them.    Such  a  life  as  that,  is  a  death  in  life!  " 

"  He  who  has  deciphered  the  secret  of  life  and  found  the 
answer,"  says  the  disenchanted,  but  harmonious  voice  of 
Amiel,  "  is  no  longer  bound  on  the  great  wheel  of  existence, 
he  has  quitted  the  world  of  the  living.  When  illusion  van- 
ishes, nothingness  resumes  its  eternal  reign,  the  bright 
bubble  has  burst  in  infinite  space,  and  our  poor  thought  is 
dissolved  in  the  immutable  repose  of  the  limitless  void." 

Unluckily  this  repose  in  the  void  is  the  worst  torture  for 
a  man  of  the  white  race.  He  would  rather  endure  any 
torment  that  life  may  bring.  "  Do  not  tear  them  from  me," 
he  cries,  "  you  kill  me  when  you  destroy  the  cruel  falsehoods 
by  which  I  live." 

Clerambault  bitterly  adopted  the  name  that  a  nationalist 
paper  had  given  him  in  derision:  "  The  one  against  all." 
Yes,  he  was  the  common  enemy,  the  destroyer  of  our  life- 
giving  illusions. 

He  could  not  bear  this;  the  thought  of  making  others 
suffer  was  too  painful  to  him.  How  then  was  he  to  get 
out  of  this  tragic  no- thoroughfare?  Wherever  he  turned, 
he  found  the  same  insolvable  dilemma;  either  a  fatal  illu- 
sion, or  death  without  it. 

"  I  will  accept  neither  the  one  nor  the  other." 

"Whether  you  accept  it  or  no,  you  must  yield — for  the 
way  is  barred." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  shall  pass  through  .  .  . " 


PART  FOUR 


Clerambault  ^as  passing  through  a  new  danger-zone. 
His  solitary  journey  was  like  a  mountain  ascension,  where 
a  man  finds  himself  suddenly  enveloped  in  fog,  clinging 
to  a  rock,  unable  to  advance  a  step.  He  could  see  nothing 
in  front  of  him,  and,  no  matter  to  which  side  he  turned, 
he  could  hear  beneath  him  the  roar  of  the  torrent  of  suf- 
fering. Even  so,  he  could  not  stand  still;  though  he  hung 
over  the  abyss  and  his  hold  threatened  to  give  way. 

He  had  reached  one  of  these  dark  turnings,  and  to  make 
it  worse,  the  news  that  day,  as  barked  out  by  the  press, 
made  the  heart  ache  by  its  insanity.  Useless  hecatombs, 
which  the  induced  egotism  of  the  world  behind  the  lines 
thought  natural;  cruelties  on  all  sides,  criminal  reprisals  for 
crimes — for  which  these  good  people  clamoured,  and  loudly 
applauded.  The  horizon  that  surrounded  the  poor  human 
creatures  in  their  burrow  had  never  seemed  so  dark  and 
pitiless. 

Clerambault  asked  himself  if  the  law  of  love  that  he  felt 
within  himself  had  not  been  designed  for  other  worlds,  and 
different  humanities.  The  mail  had  brought  him  letters  full 
of  fresh  threats;  and  knowing  that,  in  the  tragic  absurdity 
of  the  time,  his  life  was  at  the  mercy  of  the  first  madman 
who  happened  to  turn  up,  he  hoped  secretly  that  he  might 
not  have  long  tot  wait.  But  being  of  good  stock,  he  kept 
on  his  way,  his  head  up  as  usual,  working  steadily  and 
methodically  at  his  daily  task  so  as  to  gain  the  end,  no 
matter  what  that  might  be,  of  the  path  whereon  he  had 
set  his  feet. 

He  remembered  that  on  this  day  he  had  promised  to  go 
and  see  his  niece  Aline,  who  had  just  been  confined.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  a  sister  who  had  died,  and  who  had 

I7Z 


178  CLERAMBAULT 

been  very  dear  to  him.  A  little  older  than  Maxime,  she 
had  been  brought  up  with  him.  As  she  grew  into  girl- 
hood she  developed  a  complicated  character.  Restless 
and  discontented,  always  thinking  of  herself,  she  wanted 
to  be  loved  and  to  tyrannise.  She  had  also  too  much 
curiosity;  dangerous  experiences  were  an  attraction  to  her, 
and  with  all  this  she  was  rather  dry,  but  emotional,  vindic- 
tive and  high-tempered.  Still,  when  she  chose  she  could 
be  tender  and  attractive.  Maxime  and  she  had  played  the 
game  together,  and  carried  it  pretty  far ;  so  that  it  had  been 
necessary  to  watch  them  closely.  In  spite  of  his  irony, 
Maxime  had  been  caught  by  the  dark  eyes  that  pierced 
through  him  with  their  electric  thrill;  and  Aline  was  irri- 
tated and  attracted  by  Maxime's  mockery.  They  had 
loved  and  quarrelled  furiously,  and  then  they  had  both 
gone  on  to  something  else.  She  had  shot  arrows  into  sev- 
eral other  hearts;  and  then,  when  she  thought  the  right 
time  had  come, — there  is  always  a  time  for  everything, — 
she  had  married,  in  the  most  reasonable  way,  a  successful, 
prosperous  man  of  business,  head  of  a  firm  which  sold 
artistic  and  ecclesiastical  furniture  in  the  Rue  Bonaparte. 
She  was  about  to  have  a  child  when  her  husband  was 
ordered  to  the  front.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  her 
ardent  patriotism;  for  self-love  includes  one's  country. 
Clerambault  would  never  have  expected  to  find  any  sym- 
pathy in  her  for  his  theories  of  fraternal  pity.  She  had 
little  enough  for  her  friends,  but  none  at  all  for  her  enemies. 
She  would  have  ground  them  in  a  mortar  with  the  same 
cold  satisfaction  that  she  felt  when  she  tormented  hearts 
or  teased  insects  because  something  or  somebody  had 
vexed  her. 

As  the  fruit  within  her  ripened,  her  attention  was  con- 
centrated upon  it;  all  the  strength  of  her  heart  seemed  to 
flow  inward.  The  war  receded;  the  cannon  of  Noyon 
sounded  no  longer  in  her  ears.     When  she  spoke  of  the 


CLERAMBAULT  179 

war, — ^which  she  did  less  and  less  every  day, — you  would 
have  thought  that  she  was  talking  of  some  distant  colonial 
expedition.  Of  course  she  remembered  the  dangers  that 
threatened  her  husband,  and  pitied  him  naturally: — "  Poor 
dear  boy!  "  with  a  little  smile  as  much  as  to  say,  "  He 
has  not  much  luck.  Not  very  clever,  you  know."  .  .  . 
But  she  did  not  dwell  on  the  subject,  and,  thank  Heaven  I 
it  left  no  traces  on  her  mind.  She  had  paid  her  score,  she 
thought,  and  her  conscience  was  at  rest;  now  she  was  in 
haste  to  go  back  to  the  world's  most  serious  task.  One 
really  would  have  supposed  that  the  whole  world  hung  on 
the  egg  that  she  was  about  to  lay. 

Clerambault  had  been  so  absorbed  by  his  struggles  that 
he  had  not  seen  Aline  for  months,  and  had  therefore  been 
imable  to  follow  the  change  in  her  mood.  Rosine  might 
have  spoken  of  it  before  him,  but  he  had  paid  no  attention. 
Within  the  last  twenty-four  hours  he  had  heard  in  quick 
succession  of  the  birth  of  the  baby  and  of  the  fact  that 
Aline's  husband  was  missing,  like  Maxime,  and  he  immedi- 
ately pictured  to  himself  the  suffering  of  the  young  mother. 
He  thought  of  her  as  he  had  always  known  her — vibrating 
between  pleasure  and  pain,  but  always  feeling  the  latter 
more  keenly,  giving  herself  up  to  it,  and  even  when  she  was 
happy,  finding  reasons  for  distress.  She  was  violent  too, 
bitter,  agitated,  fighting  against  fate,  and  apt  to  be  vexed 
with  everyone  around  her.  He  was  not  sure  that  she  was 
not  angry  with  him  personally,  on  account  of  his  ideas 
about  reconciliation  now  that  she  must  be  breathing  out 
vengeance.  He  knew  that  his  attitude  was  a  scandal  in  the 
family,  and  that  no  one  would  be  less  disposed  to  tolerate  it 
than  Aline.  But  no  matter  how  she  received  him,  he  felt 
that  he  must  go  to  her  and  help  her  in  any  way  that  his 
affection  could  suggest.  Expecting  a  storm,  but  resigned  to 
it,  he  climbed  up  the  stairs  and  rang  the  bell  at  his  niece's 
door. 


i8o  CLERAMBAULT 

He  found  her  lying  in  bed  with  the  infant,  which  she  had 
had  placed  by  her  side.  She  looked  calm  and  young,  with  a 
sweet  expression  of  beaming  happiness  on  her  face.  She 
was  like  the  blooming  older  sister  of  the  tiny  baby,  at  whom 
she  looked  with  adoring  laughter,  as  he  lay  there  waving 
his  little  spidery  legs,  his  mouth  open,  hardly  alive  as  yet, 
still  dreaming  of  the  dark  warm  place  from  which  he  had 
come.    She  greeted  Clerambault  with  a  cry  of  triumph: 

"  Oh,  Uncle  dear,  how  sweet  of  you  to  come!  Do  look 
at  him!     Did  you  ever  see  such  a  darling?  " 

She  was  so  proud  of  her  wonderful  masterpiece  that 
she  was  positively  grateful  to  anyone  who  would  look  at 
him.  Clerambault  had  never  seen  her  so  pretty  and  so 
sweet.  He  hardly  saw  the  child,  though  he  went  through 
all  the  antics  that  politeness  required,  making  inarticulate 
admiring  noises  which  the  mother  expected  and  snapped  up 
like  a  bird.  He  saw  only  her  happy  face,  her  lovely  smiling 
eyes,  and  heard  her  charming  childish  laughter.  How  good 
it  is  to  see  anyone  so  happy!  All  the  things  that  he  had 
come  prepared  to  say  to  her  went  clean  out  of  his  head — 
all  useless  and  out  of  place.  The  only  thing  necessary  was 
to  gaze  on  the  infant  wonder,  and  share  the  delight  of  the 
hen  over  her  chick,  joining  in  her  delicious  cluck  of  inno- 
cent vanity. 

The  shadow  of  the  war,  however,  did  pass  before  his  eyes 
for  a  moment,  the  thought  of  the  brutal,  useless  carnage, 
the  dead  son,  the  missing  husband;  and  as  he  bent  over 
the  child  he  could  not  help  thinking  with  a  sad  smile: 

"  Why  bring  children  into  the  world,  if  it  is  to  butcher 
them  like  this?  I  wonder  what  will  happen  to  this  poor 
little  chap  twenty  years  hence?  " 

Thoughts  like  these-  did  not  trouble  the  mother.  They 
could  not  dim  her  sunshine.  All  cares  seemed  far  away. 
She  could  see  nothing  but  the  "  joy  that  a  man  was  born 
into  the  world." 


CLERAMBAULT  'l8i 

This  man-child  is  to  each  mother  in  turn  the  incarnation 
of  all  the  hope  of  humanity.  The  sadness  and  folly  of 
the  present  day,  what  do  they  matter?  It  is  he  perhaps 
who  will  put  an  end  to  them.  He  is  for  every  mother  the 
miracle,  the  promised  Messiah!    .    .    . 

Just  as  he  was  going,  Clerambault  ventured  a  word  of 
sympathy  as  to  her  husband.    She  sighed  deeply: 

"  Poor  Armand!     I'm  sure  that  he  was  taken  prisoner." 

"  Have  you  had  any  news?  "  asked  Clerambault. 

"  No,  no,  but  it  is  more  than  probable.  ...  I  am 
almost  certain.  If  not,  you  know,  I  should  have 
heard.  ..." 

She  seemed  to  brush  away  the  disagreeable  thought,  as 
if  it  were  a  fly.     (Go  away!    How  did  it  get  in  here?) 

Then  she  added,  the  smile  coming  back  into  her  eyes: 

"  It  will  be  much  better  for  him,  he  can  rest.  I  am  easier 
about  him  there,  than  when  he  was  in  the  trenches.  ..." 
And  then,  her  mind  springing  back  to  her  world's  wonder: 

"  Won't  he  be  glad  when  he  sees  the  treasure  the  good 
God  has  sent  me?  "  .   .   . 

It  was  when  Clerambault  stood  up  to  go  that  she  con- 
descended to  remember  that  there  were  sorrows  still  in  the 
world.  She  thought  of  Maxime's  death,  and  did  drop  a 
word  of  pretty  sympathy.  But  how  clear  it  was  that  at 
bottom  she  was  completely  indifferent!  Absolutely  so  .  .  . 
though  full  of  good-will,  which  was  something  with  her. 
More  surprising  still,  softened  by  her  new  happiness,  she 
had  a  glimpse  of  the  tired  face  and  sad  heart  of  the  old 
man.  She  had  a  vague  recollection  that  he  had  done  some- 
thing foolish,  and  had  trouble  in  consequence.  And  instead 
of  scolding  him  as  he  deserved,  she  forgave  him  tacitly,  with 
a  magnanimous  smile,  like  a  little  princess.  "  Dear  Uncle," 
she  said,  with  an  affectionate  if  slightly  patronising  tone: 
"you  must  not  worry  yourself,  it  will  all  come  out  right. 
.  .   .  Give  me  a  kiss!  " 


iSa  CLERAMBAULT 

As  Clerambault  went  away  he  was  amused  by  the  conso- 
lation he  had  received  from  her  whom  he  had  gone  to  con- 
sole. He  realised  how  slight  our  suffering  must  appear  in 
the  eyes  of  indifferent  Nature.  All  her  concern  is  for  the 
bloom  of  the  coming  spring.  Let  the  dead  leaves  fall  now 
to  the  ground,  the  tree  will  grow  all  the  better  and  put 
forth  fresh  foliage  in  due  season.  .  .  .  Lovely,  beloved 
Spring! 


Those  who  can  never  bloom  again  find  you  very  cruel, 
gentle  Spring!  Those  who  have  lost  all  that  they  loved, 
their  hopes,  their  strength,  their  youth — everything  that 
made  life  worth  living  to  them.  .   .   . 

The  world  was  full  of  mutilated  bodies  and  souls;  some 
bitterly  lamenting  their  lost  happiness,  and  some,  yet  more 
miserable,  sorrowing  for  what  had  been  denied  them,  the 
cup  dashed  from  their  lips,  in  the  full  bloom  of  love,  and 
of  their  twenty  years. 

Gerambault  came  home  one  evening  at  the  end  of  Janu- 
ary, wet  and  chilled  through  with  the  fog,  after  standing 
at  a  wood-yard.  He  had  stood  for  hours  in  line  waiting 
his  turn  in  the  crowd,  and  after  all  they  had  been  told  that 
there  would  be  no  distribution  that  day.  As  he  came  near 
the  house  where  he  lived  he  heard  his  name,  and  a  young 
man  who  was  talking  to  the  janitor  turned  and  held  out  a 
letter,  looking  rather  embarrassed  as  Clerambault  came  for- 
ward. The  right  sleeve  of  his  coat  was  pinned  up  to  the 
shoulder,  and  there  was  a  patch  over  his  right  eye;  he  was 
pale,  and  evidently  had  been  laid  up  for  months.  Cleram- 
bault spoke  pleasantly  to  him  and  tried  to  take  the  letter, 
but  the  man  drew  it  back  quickly,  saying  that  it  was  of 
no  consequence  now.  Clerambault  then  asked  if  he  would 
not  come  up  and  talk  to  him  a  little  while,  but  the  other 
hesitated,  and  the  poet  might  have  perceived  that  he  was 
trying  to  get  away,  but  not  being  very  quick  at  seeing  into 
other  people's  minds,  he  said  good-naturedly:  "  My  flat  is 
rather  high  up.  ..." 

This  seemed  to  touch  the  visitor  on  a  tender  point,  and 

183 


i84  CLERAMBAULT 

he  answered:  "I  can  get  up  well  Enough,"  and  turned  to- 
wards the  staircase.  Clerambault  now  understood  that 
besides  his  other  wounds,  the  heart  within  him  had  been 
wounded  to  the  quick. 

They  sat  down  in  the  fireless  study,  and  like  the  room, 
it  was  some  time  before  the  conversation  thawed  out.  All 
that  Clerambault  could  get  out  of  the  man  were  short  stiff 
answers,  not  very  clear,  and  given  in  rather  an  irritated 
tone.  He  learned  that  his  name  was  Julian  Moreau,  that 
he  had  been  a  student  at  the  Faculty  of  Letters,  and  had 
just  passed  three  months  at  Val-de-Grace.  He  was  living 
alone  in  Paris,  in  a  room  over  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  though 
he  had  a  widowed  mother  and  some  other  relations  in 
Orleans;  he  did  not  explain  at  first  why  he  was  not  with 
them. 

All  at  once  after  a  short  silence  he  decided  to  speak,  and 
in  a  low  voice,  hoarse  at  first,  but  softening  as  he  went  on, 
he  told  Clerambault  that  his  articles  had  been  brought 
into  his  trench  by  a  man  just  back  from  leave,  and  handed 
about  from  one  to  the  other;  to  him  they  had  been  a  real 
blessing.  They  answered  to  the  cry  of  his  inmost  soul: 
"  Thou  shalt  not  lie."  The  papers  and  reviews  made  him 
furious ;  they  had  the  impudence  to  show  the  soldier  a  false 
picture  of  the  armies,  trumped-up  letters  from  the  front,  a 
cheap  comedy  style  of  courage,  and  inappropriate  joking; 
all  the  abject  boasting  of  actors  safe  at  home,  speechifying 
over  the  death  of  others.  It  was  an  insult  to  be  slobbered 
over  with  the  disgusting  kisses  of  these  prostitutes  of  the 
press.    As  if  their  sufferings  were  a  mockery! 

Clerambault's  writings  found  an  echo  in  their  hearts;  not 
that  he  understood  them,  no  one  could  understand  who  had 
not  shared  their  hardships.  But  he  pitied  them,  and  spoke 
humanely  of  the  unfortunates  in  all  camps.  He  dared  to 
speak  of  the  injustices,  common  to  all  nations,  which  had 
led  to  the  general  suffering.    He  could  not  take  away  their 


CLERAMBAULT  185 

trouble,  but  he  did  raise  it  into  an  atmosphere  where  it 
could  be  borne. 

*'  If  you  only  knew  how  we  crave  a  word  of  real  sjmi- 
pathy;  it  is  all  very  well  to  be  hardened,  or  old, — there  are 
grey-haired,  bent  men  among  us — but  after  what  we  have 
seen,  suffered,  and  done  to  others,  there  are  times  when  we 
are  like  lost  children,  looking  for  their  mother  to  console 
them.  Even  our  mothers  seem  far  away.  At  times  we  get 
strange  letters  from  home,  as  if  we  were  deserted  by  our 
own  flesh  and  blood. 

Clerambault  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  with  a  groan. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  said  Moreau,  "  are  you  ill?  " 

"  You  remind  me  of  all  the  harm  that  I  did." 

"  You?    No,  it  was  other  people  that  did  the  harm." 

"  Yes,  I,  as  much  as  the  others.  You  must  try  to  forgive 
us  aU." 

"  You  are  the  last  who  ought  to  say  so." 

"  If  the  truth  were  known,  I  should  be  among  the  first. 
For  I  am  one  of  the  few  who  see  dearly  how  wicked  I 
was."  He  began  to  inveigh  against  his  generation,  but 
broke  off  with  a  discouraged  gesture: 

"  None  of  that  does  any  good.  .  .  .  Tell  me  about  your- 
self." 

His  voice  was  so  humMe  that  Moreau  was  really  touched 
to  see  the  older  man  blame  himself  so  severely.  All  his 
distrust  melted  away,  and  he  threw  wide  the  door  of  his 
bitter,  wounded  spirit,  confessing  that  he  had  come  several 
times  as  far  as  the  house,  but  could  not  make  up  his  mind 
to  leave  his  letter.  He  never  did  consent  to  show  it.  Since 
he  came  out  of  the  hospital  he  had  not  been  able  to  talk 
to  anyone;  these  people  back  here  sickened  him  with  their 
little  preoccupations,  their  business,  their  pleasures,  the  re- 
strictions to  their  pleasures,  their  selfishness,  their  igno- 
rance and  lack  of  comprehension.  He  folt  like  a  stranger 
among  them,  more  than  if  he  were  with  African  savages. 


i86  CLERAMBAULT 

Besides, — ^he  stopped,  the  angry  words  seemed  to  stick  in 
his  throat — it  was  not  only  these  people — he  felt  a  stranger 
to  all  the  world,  cut  off  from  normal  life,  from  the  pleas- 
ures and  work  of  other  men  by  his  infirmities.  He  was  a 
mere  wreck,  blind  and  maimed.  The  poor  fellow  was  ab- 
surdly ashamed  of  it;  he  blushed  at  the  pitying  glances  that 
people  threw  at  him  in  passing — like  a  penny  that  you  give, 
turning  away  your  head  at  the  same  time  from  the  un- 
pleasant sight.  For  in  his  sensitiveness  he  exaggerated  his 
ugliness  and  was  disgusted  by  his  deformity.  He  dwelt  on 
his  lost  joys  and  ruined  youth;  when  he  saw  couples  in 
the  street,  he  could  not  help  feeling  jealous ;  the  tears  would 
come  into  his  eyes. 

Even  this  was  not  all,  and  when  he  had  poured  out  the 
bitterness  of  his  heart — and  Clerambault's  compassion  en- 
couraged him  to  speak  further — he  got  down  to  the  worst  of 
the  trouble,  which  he  and  his  comrades  felt  like  a  cancer 
that  one  does  not  dare  to  look  at.  Through  his  obscure, 
violent,  and  miserable  talk,  Clerambault  at  last  made  out 
what  it  was  that  tore  the  hearts  of  these  young  men.  It 
is  easy  enough  for  dried-up  egotists,  withered  intellectuals, 
to  sneer  at  this  love  of  life  in  the  young,  and  their  despair 
at  the  loss  of  it;  but  it  was  not  alone  their  ruined,  blasted 
youth  that  pressed  on  these  poor  soldiers, — though  that  was 
terrible  enough — the  worst  was  not  to  know  the  reason  for 
this  sacrifice,  and  the  poisonous  suspicion  that  it  was  all 
in  vain.  The  pain  of  these  victims  could  not  be  soothed 
by  the  gross  appeal  of  a  foolish  racial  supremacy,  nor  by  a 
fragment  of  ground  fought  for  between  States.  They  knew 
now  how  much  earth  a  man  needs  to  die  on,  and  that  the 
blood  of  all  races  is  part  of  the  same  stream  of  life. 

Clerambault  felt  that  he  was  a  sort  of  elder  brother  to 
these  young  men;  the  sense  of  this  and  his  duty  towards 
them  gave  him  a  strength  that  he  would  not  otherwise  have 


CXERAMBAULT  187 

had,  and  he  charged  their  messenger  with  words  of  hope 
and  consolation. 

"  Your  sufferings  are  not  thrown  away,"  he  said.  "  It  is 
true  that  they  are  the  fruit  of  a  cruel  error,  but  the  errors 
themselves  are  not  all  lost.  The  scourge  of  today  is  the 
explosion  of  evils  which  have  ravaged  Europe  for  ages; 
pride  and  cupidity.  It  is  made  up  of  conscienceless  States, 
the  disease  of  capitalism,  and  is  become  the  monstrous  ma- 
chine called  Civilisation,  full  of  intolerance,  hypocrisy,  and 
violence.  Everything  is  breaking  up;  all  must  be  done  over 
again;  it  is  a  tremendous  task,  but  do  not  speak  of  dis- 
couragement, for  yours  is  the  greatest  work  that  has  ever 
been  offered  to  a  generation.  The  fire  of  the  trenches  and 
the  asphyxiating  gases  that  blind  you  come  as  much  from 
agitators  in  the  rear  as  from  the  enemy;  you  must  strive 
to  see  clearly,  to  see  where  the  real  fight  lies.  It  is  not 
against  a  people  but  against  an  unhealthy  society  founded 
on  exploitation  and  rivalry  between  nations,  on  the  subor- 
dination of  the  free  conscience  to  the  Machine-State.  The 
peoples,  resigned  or  sceptical,  would  not  have  seen  this  With 
the  tragical  clearness  in  which  it  now  appears,  without  the 
painful  disturbance  of  the  war.  I  do  not  bless  this  pain; 
leave  that  to  the  bigots  of  our  old  religions!  We  do  not 
love  sorrow  and  we  all  want  happiness,  but  if  sorrow  must 
come,  at  least  let  it  be  of  some  use!  Do  not  let  your  suf- 
erings  add  to  those  of  others.  You  must  not  give  way.  You 
are  taught  in  the  army  that  when  the  order  to  advance  is 
once  given  in  a  battle  it  is  more  dangerous  to  fall  back 
than  to  go  on;  so  do  not  look  back;  leave  your  ruins  behind 
you,  and  march  on  towards  the  new  world." 

As  he  spoke  the  eyes  of  his  young  auditor  seemed  to  say: 
"  Tell  me  more,  more  yet,  more  even  than  hopes,  give  me 
certainties,  tell  of  the  victory  which  will  come  soon." 

Men  need  to  be  tempted  and  decoyed,  even  the  best  of 


i88  CLERAMBAULT 

them.  In  exchange  for  any  sacrifice  they  make  for  an  ideal, 
you  have  to  promise  them,  if  not  immediate  realisation,  at 
least  an  eternal  compensation,  as  all  the  religions  do.  Jesus 
was  followed  because  they  thought  that  He  would  give  them 
victory  here  or  hereafter. — But  he  who  would  speak  the 
truth  cannot  promise  or  assure  men  of  victory;  the  risks  are 
not  to  be  ignored;  perhaps  it  will  never  come,  in  any  case 
it  will  be  a  long  time.  To  disciples,  such  a  thought  is  crush- 
ingly  pessimistic;  not  so  for  the  master,  who  has  the  serenity 
of  a  man  who,  having  reached  the  mountain  top,  can  see 
over  all  the  surrounding  country,  while  they  can  only  see 
the  steep  hill-side  which  they  must  climb.  How  is  he  to 
communicate  his  calm  to  them?  If  they  cannot  look  through 
the  eyes  of  the  master,  they  can  always  see  his  eyes  from 
which  are  reflected  the  vision  denied  to  them;  there  they 
can  read  the  assurance  that  he  who  knows  the  truth  (as  they 
believe)  is  delivered  from  all  their  trials. 

The  eyes  of  Julian  Moreau  sought  in  Clerambault's  eyes 
for  this  security  of  soul,  this  inward  harmony;  and  poor 
anxious  Clerambault  had  it  not.  But  was  he  sure  that  it 
was  not  there?  .  .  .  Looking  at  Julian  humbly,  he  saw, 
...  he  saw  that  Julian  had  found  it  in  him.  And  as 
a  man  climbing  up  through  a  fog  suddenly  finds  himself 
in  the  light,  he  saw  that  the  light  was  in  him,  and  that  it 
had  come  to  him  because  he  needed  it  to  shine  upon 
another. 


After  the  wounded  man  had  gone  away,  somewhat  com- 
forted, Clerambault  felt  slightly  dazed,  and  sat  drinking 
in  the  strange  happiness  that  the  heart  feels  when,  how- 
ever unfortunate  itself,  it  has  been  able  to  help  another 
now  or  in  the  future.  How  profound  is  the  instinct  for 
happiness,  the  plenitude  of  being!  All  aspire  to  it,  but  it  is 
not  the  same  for  all.  There  are  some  that  wish  only  to 
possess;  to  others,  sight  is  possession,  and  to  others  yet,  faith 
is  sight.  We  are  links  of  a  chain  and  this  instinct  imites 
us;  from  those  who  only  seek  their  own  good,  or  that  of 
their  family,  or  their  country,  up  to  the  being  which  em- 
braces millions  of  beings  and  desires  the  good  of  all.  There 
are  those  who,  having  no  joy  of  their  own,  can  almost  uncon- 
sciously bestow  it  on  others,  as  Clerambault  had  done;  for 
they  can  see  the  light  on  his  face  while  his  own  eyes  are 
in  shadow. 

The  look  of  his  young  friend  had  revealed  an  unknown 
treasure  to  poor  Clerambault,  and  the  knowledge  of  the 
divine  message  with  which  he  was  entrusted  re-established 
his  lost  union  with  other  men.  He  had  only  contended 
with  them  because  he  was  their  hardy  pioneer,  their  Chris- 
topher Columbus  forcing  his  way  across  the  desert  ocean, 
that  he  might  open  the  road  to  the  New  World.  They 
deride,  but  follow  him;  for  every  true  idea,  whether  under- 
stood or  not,  is  a  ship  under  weigh,  and  the  souls  of  the 
past  are  drawn  after  in  its  wake. 

From  this  day  onward  he  averted  his  eyes  from  the 
irreparable  present  of  the  war  and  its  dead,  and  looked 
towards  the  living,  and  the  future  which  is  in  our  hands. 
We  are  hypnotised,  obsessed  by  the  thought  of  those  that 
we  have  lost,  and  the  morbid  temptation  to  bury  our  hearts 
in  their  graves,  but  we  must  tear  ourselves  away  from  the 

ilo 


igo  CLERAMBAULT 

baleful  vapours  that  rise,  as  in  Rome,  from  The  Way  of 
•the  Tombs.  March  on!  This  is  no  time  to  halt.  We  have 
not  yet  earned  the  right  to  rest  with  them,  for  there  are 
others  who  need  us.  There,  like  the  wrecks  of  the  Grand 
Army,  you  can  see  in  the  distance  those  who  drag  them- 
selves along,  searching  on  the  dreary  plain  for  the  half- 
effaced  path. 

The  thought  of  the  sombre  pessimism  which  threatened 
to  overwhelm  these  young  men  after  the  war  was  a  grave 
anxiety  to  Clerambault.  The  moral  danger  was  a  serious 
one,  of  which  the  Governments  took  no  notice  at  all.  They 
were  like  bad  coachmen  who  flog  their  horses  up  a  steep  hill 
at  a  gallop;  it  is  true  that  the  horse  reaches  the  top,  but 
as  the  road  goes  on  he  stumbles  and  falls,  foundered  for 
life.  With  what  a  gallant  spirit  our  young  men  rushed 
to  the  assault  in  the  beginning  of  the  war!  And  then 
their  ardour  gradually  diminished.  But  the  horse  was  still 
in  harness,  and  the  shafts  held  him  up.  A  factitious  excite- 
ment was  kept  up  all  around  him,  his  daily  ration  was 
seasoned  with  glittering  hopes;  and  though  the  strength 
went  out  of  it  little  by  little,  the  poor  creature  could  not 
fall  down,  could  not  even  complain,  he  had  not  the  strength 
to  think.  The  countersign  all  about  these  victims  was  to 
hear  nothing,  to  stop  the  ears  and  to  lie. 

Day  after  day  the  battle-tide  ebbed,  and  left  wrecks  on 
the  sand,  men  wounded  and  maimed ;  and  through  them  the 
depths  of  this  human  ocean  were  brought  to  the  light. 
These  poor  wretches,  ruthlessly  torn  from  life,  moved  help- 
lessly in  the  void,  too  feeble  to  cling  to  the  passions  of 
yesterday  or  dreams  of  tomorrow.  Some  asked  themselves 
blindly,  and  others  with  a  cruelly  clear  insight,  why  they 
had  been  born,  what  life  meant.  .   .    . 

"  Since  he  who  is  destroyed,  suffers,  and  he  who  destroys 
has  no  pleasure,  and  is  shortly  destroyed  himself,  tell  me 


CLERAMBAULT  191 

what  no  philosopher  can  explain;  whom  does  it  please,  and 
to  whose  profit  is  this  unfortunate  life  of  the  universe,  which 
is  only  preserved  by  the  injury  or  death  of  all  the  creatures 
which  compose  it?  "*  .   .   . 

It  is  necessary  to  answer  these  men,  to  give  them  a 
reason  for  living,  but  there  is  no  such  need  for  a  man  of 
Clerambault's  age;  his  life  is  over,  and  all  he  requires  is 
to  free  his  conscience  as  a  sort  of  public  bequest. 

To  young  people  who  have  all  their  life  before  them,  it  is 
not  enough  to  contemplate  truth  across  a  heap  of  corpses; 
whatever  the  past  may  have  been,  the  future  alone  counts 
for  them.    Let  us  clear  away  the  ruins! 

What  causes  them  the  most  pain?    Their  own  suffering? 

No,  it  is  their  lack  of  faith  in  the  altar  on  which  this 
suffering  was  laid — (does  a  man  regret  if  he  sacrifices  him- 
self for  the  woman  he  loves,  or  for  his  child?) — This  doubt 
poisons  them,  takes  away  the  courage  to  pursue  their  way, 
because  they  fear  to  find  only  despair  at  the  end.  This 
is  why  people  say  to  you:  "  Never  shake  the  ideal  of 
Country,  it  ought  rather  to  be  built  up."  What  a  derision  1 
As  if  it  were  possible  to  restore  a  lost  faith  by  force  of 
will!  We  deceive  ourselves;  we  know  it  in  the  bottom  of 
our  hearts,  and  this  consciousness  kills  courage  and  joy. 

Let  us  be  brave  enough  to  reject  that  in  which  we  no 
longer  believe.  The  trees  drop  their  leaves  in  the  autumn 
in  order  that  they  may  put  forth  new  leaves  in  the  spring. 
Out  of  your  past  illusions,  make  fires  as  the  peasants  do 
with  the  fallen  leaves;  the  fresh  grass,  the  new  faith,  will 
grow  all  the  more  thickly,  for  it  is  there  waiting.  Nature 
does  not  die,  it  changes  shape  continually;  like  her,  let  us 
cast  off  the  garment  of  the  past. 

Look  carefully,  and  reckon  up  these  hard  years.  You 
have  fought  and  suffered  for  your  country,  and  what  have 

*  Leopardi. 


192  CLERAMBAULT 

you  gained  by  it?  You  have  discovered  the  brotherhood 
of  the  men  who  fight  and  suffer.  Is  the  price  too  high? 
No,  if  you  will  listen  to  your  heart,  if  you  will  dare  to 
open  it  to  the  new  faith  which  has  come  to  you  when  you 
least  expected  it. 

The  thing  that  disappoints  and  drives  us  to  despair  is 
that  we  cling  to  what  we  had  at  the  beginning;  and  when 
we  no  longer  trust  that,  we  feel  that  all  is  lost.  A  great 
nation  has  never  reached  the  object  sought;  and  so  much 
the  better,  for  almost  always  what  is  reached  is  superior 
to  what  was  sought,  though  different.  It  is  not  wise  to 
start  out  with  our  wisdom  ready  made,  but  to  gather  it 
sincerely  as  we  go  along. 

You  are  not  the  same  men  that  you  were  in  1914.  If 
you  dare  admit  it,  then  dare  to  act  it  also!  That  will  be 
the  chief  gain — ^perhaps  the  only  one — of  the  war.  But 
do  you  really  care?  So  many  things  conspire  to  intimidate 
you;  the  weariness  of  these  years,  old  habits,  dread  of  the 
effort  needed  to  examine  yourself,  to  throw  away  what  is 
dead,  and  stand  for  what  is  living.  We  have,  we  do  not 
know  what  respect  for  the  old,  a  lazy  preference  for  what 
we  are  accustomed  to,  even  if  it  is  bad,  fatal.  Then  there 
is  the  indolent  need  for  what  is  easy  which  makes  us  take 
a  trodden  path  rather  than  hew  out  a  new  one  for  our- 
selves. Is  it  not  the  ideal  of  most  Frenchmen  to  accept 
their  plan  of  life  ready-made  in  childhood  and  never  change 
it?  If  only  this  war,  which  has  destroyed  so  many  of  your 
hearths,  could  force  you  to  come  out  from  your  ashes,  to 
found  other  healths,  to  seek  other  truths! 


The  wish  to  break  with  the  past,  and  adventure  them- 
selves in  unknown  regions  was  not  lacking  to  these  young 
men.  They  would  rather  have  preferred  to  go  ahead  with- 
out stopping,  and  they  had  scarcely  left  the  Old  World 
when  they  expected  to  take  possession  of  the  New. — No 
hesitation,  no  middle  course;  they  wanted  absolute  solu- 
tions, either  the  docile  servitude  of  the  past,  or  revolution. 

These  were  Moreau's  views;  he  looked  upon  Cleram- 
bault's  hope  of  social  revolution  as  a  certainty,  and  in  the 
exhortation  to  win  truth  patiently  step  by  step  he  heard 
an  appeal  to  violent  action  which  would  conquer  it  at  once. 

He  introduced  Clerambault  to  two  or  three  groups  of 
young  intellectuals  with  revolutionary  tendencies.  They 
were  not  very  numerous,  for  here  and  there  you  would  see 
the  same  faces,  but  they  gained  an  importance  which  they 
would  not  otherwise  have  had,  from  the  watch  which  was 
kept  on  them  by  the  authorities.  Silly  people  in  power, 
armed  to  the  teeth  with  millions  of  bayonets,  police  and 
courts  of  justice  at  their  command,  yet  uneasy  and  afraid 
to  let  a  dozen  freethinkers  meet  to  discuss  them! 

These  circles  had  not  the  air  of  conspiracies,  and  though 
they  rather  invited  persecution,  their  activities  were  con- 
fined to  words.  What  else  was  there  for  them  to  do  but 
talk?  They  were  separated  from  the  mass  of  their  fellow 
thinkers,  who  had  been  drawn  into  the  army  or  the  war- 
machine,  which  would  only  give  them  up  when  they  were 
past  service.  What  of  the  youth  of  Europe  remained  be- 
hind the  lines?  There  were  the  slackers,  who  often  descended 
to  the  lowest  depths  of  meanness  to  make  others  fight,  so 
that  it  should  be  forgotten  that  they  did  not  fight  them- 
selves.   Setting  these  aside,  the  representatives — rari  nantes 

193 


194  CLERAMBAULT 

— of  the  younger  generation  in  civil  life  were  those  dis- 
charged from  the  army  for  physical  incapacity,  and  a  few- 
broken-down  wrecks  of  the  war,  like  Moreau.  In  these 
mutilated  or  diseased  bodies  the  spirit  was  like  a  candle 
lighted  behind  broken  windows.  Twisted  and  smoky,  it 
seemed  as  if  a  breath  would  extinguish  it.  But  it  was  all 
the  more  ardent  for  knowing  what  to  expect  from  life. 

Sudden  changes  from  extreme  pessimism  to  an  equally 
extreme  optimism  would  occur,  and  these  violent  oscillations 
of  the  barometer  did  not  always  correspond  with  the  course 
of  events.  Pessimism  was  easily  explained,  but  its  contrary 
was  more  remarkable,  and  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
account  for  it.  They  were  just  a  handful  of  people  with- 
out means  of  action,  and  every  day  seemed  to  give  the  lie 
to  their  ideas,  but  they  appeared  more  contented  as  things 
grew  worse.  Their  hope  was  in  the  worst,  that  mad  belief 
proper  to  fanatical  and  oppressed  minorities;  Anti-Christ 
was  to  bring  back  Christ;  the  new  order  wouW  rise  when 
the  crimes  of  the  old  had  brought  it  to  ruin ;  and  it  did  not 
disturb  them  that  they  and  their  dreams  might  be  swept 
away  also.  These  young  irreconcilables  wished  above  all 
to  prevent  the  partial  realisation  of  their  dreams  in  the  old 
order  of  things.  All  or  nothing!  How  foolish  to  try  to 
make  the  world  better;  let  it  be  perfect,  or  go  to  pieces. 
It  was  a  mysticism  of  the  Great  Overturning,  of  the 
Revolution,  and  it  affected  the  minds  of  those  least  re- 
ligious; they  even  went  farther  than  the  churches.  Foolish 
race  of  man!  Always  this  faith  in  the  absolute,  which 
leads  ever  to  the  same  intoxication,  but  the  same  disasters. 
Always  mad  for  the  war  between  nations,  for  the  war  of 
classes,  for  universal  peace.  It  seems  as  if  when  humanity 
stuck  its  nose  out  of  the  boiling  mud  of  the  Creation,  it  had 
a  sun-stroke  from  which  it  has  never  recovered,  and  which, 
at  intervals,  subjects  it  to  a  recurrence  of  delirium. 

Perhaps  these  mystical  revolutionaries  are  forerunners  of 


CLERAMBAULT  195 

mutations  that  are  brooding  in  the  race — ^which  may  brood 
for  centuries  and  perhaps  never  burst  forth.  For  there 
are  millions  of  latent  possibilities  in  nature,  for  one 
realised  in  the  time  allotted  to  our  humanity.  And  it  is 
perhaps  this  obscure  sentiment  of  what  might  be,  but 
will  not  come  to  pass,  which  sometimes  gives  to  this  sort 
of  mysticism  another  form,  rarer,  more  tragical — an  exalted 
pessimism,  the  dangerous  attraction  of  sacrifice.  How  many 
of  these  revolutionists  have  we  seen  secretly  convinced  of 
the  overwhelming  force  of  evil,  and  the  certain  defeat 
of  their  cause,  and  yet  transported  with  love  for  a  lost 
cause  "...  sed  victa  Catoni"  .  .  .  and  filled  with  the 
hope  of  dying  for  her,  destroying  or  being  destroyed.  The 
crushed  Commune  gave  rise  to  many  aspirations,  not  for  its 
victory,  but  for  a  similar  annihilation! —  In  the  hearts 
of  the  most  materialistic  there  burns  forever  a  spark  of 
that  eternal  fire,  that  hope  so  often  buffeted  and  denied, 
but  still  maintained,  of  an  imperishable  refuge  for  all  the 
oppressed  in  some  better  Hereafter. 


These  young  people  welcomed  Clerambault  with  great 
affection  and  esteem,  hoping  to  make  him  one  of  themselves. 
Some  of  them  read  in  his  ideas  a  reflection  of  their  own, 
while  others  saw  in  him  just  a  sincere  old  bourgeois  whose 
heart  had  been  hitherto  his  only  guide — a  rather  insuffi- 
cient, though  generous  one.  They  hoped  that  he  would  let 
himself  be  taught  by  their  science,  and  like  them,  would 
follow  to  their  extreme  limits  the  logical  consequences  of 
the  principles  laid  down.  Clerambault  resisted  feebly,  for 
he  knew  that  nothing  can  be  done  to  convince  a  young 
man  who  has  made  himself  part  of  a  system.  Discussion 
is  hopeless  at  that  age.  Earlier  there  is  some  chance  to  act 
on  him,  when,  as  it  were,  the  hermit-crab  is  looking  for  his 
shell;  and  later  something  may  be  done  when  the  shell 
begins  to  wear  and  be  uncomfortable;  but  when  the  coat 
is  new,  the  only  thing  is  to  let  him  wear  it  while  it  fits 
him.  If  he  grows,  or  shrinks,  he  will  get  another.  We  will 
force  no  one,  but  let  no  one  try  to  put  force  on  us! 

No  one  in  this  circle,  at  least  in  the  early  days,  thought 
of  constraining  Clerambault,  but  sometimes  it  seemed  to 
him  that  his  ideas  were  strangely  habited  in  the  fashion  of 
his  hosts.  What  unexpected  echoes  he  heard  on  their  lips! 
He  let  his  friends  talk,  while  he  himself  said  but  little,  but 
when  he  had  left  them,  he  would  feel  troubled  and  rather 
ironical.  "  Are  those  my  thoughts?  "  he  would  say  to  him- 
self. It  is  terribly  difficult  for  one  soul  to  communicate 
with  another,  impossible  perhaps,  and  who  knows?  .  .  . 
Nature  is  wiser  than  we  ...  it  may  be  that  this  is  for 
our  good. 

Is  it  right,  is  it  even  possible  for  us  to  utter  all  our 
thoughts?      We    reach    a    conclusion    slowly,    painfully, 

196 


CLERAMBAULT  197 

through  a  series  of  trials;  it  is  the  formula  of  the  delicate 
equilibrium  between  the  inward  elements.  Change  the 
elements,  their  proportions,  their  nature,  the  formula  is  no 
longer  accurate  and  will  produce  different  results,  and  if 
you  suddenly  communicate  your  whole  thought  to  another, 
you  run  the  risk  of  alarming,  not  helping  him.  There  are 
cases  in  which,  if  he  had  understood,  it  might  have  killed 
him.  Nature,  however,  is  prudent  and  takes  precautions. 
Your  friend  does  not  comprehend  you,  because  he  cannot, 
his  instinct  will  not  let  him;  all  that  he  gets  from  your 
thought  is  the  shock  when  it  touches  his;  the  ball  glances 
off,  but  it  is  not  so  easy  to  tell  in  what  direction. 

Men  do  not  listen  with  their  brains  alone,  but  with  their 
dispositions  and  their  passions,  and  out  of  what  you  offer 
them,  each  chooses  his  own  and  rejects  the  rest,  through 
a  deep  instinct  of  self-defence.  Our  minds  do  not  throw 
open  the  door  to  every  new  idea,  but  rather  keep  a  wary 
eye  on  new-comers  through  a  peep-hole.  The  lofty  thoughts 
of  the  sages,  of  Jesus,  of  Socrates;  how  were  they  received? 
In  those  days  men  who  spoke  such  things  were  killed; 
twenty  years  later  they  were  treated  as  gods — another  way 
of  killing  them,  in  fact,  by  placing  their  thoughts  at  a  dis- 
tance, in  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  The  world  would 
indeed  come  to  an  end  if  such  ideas  were  to  be  put  in 
practice  here  and  now;  and  their  authors  knew  this  well. 
Perhaps  they  showed  the  greatness  of  their  souls  more  by 
what  they  did  not  say  than  by  what  they  did;  how  elo- 
quent were, the  pathetic  silences  of  Jesus!  The  golden 
veil  of  the  ancient  symbols  and  myths,  made  to  shield  our 
weak  timid  sight  I  Too  often,  what  is  for  one  the  breath 
of  life,  is  for  another  death,  or  worse,  murder! 

What  arc  we  to  do,  if  our  hands  are  full  of  verities? 
Shall  we  spread  them  broadcast? — Suppose  the  seed  of 
thought  may  spring  up  in  weeds  or  poisonous  plants  .   .   .  ? 

Poor  thinker,  there  is  no  need  to  tremble,  you  are  not 


198  CLERAMBAULT 

the  master  of  Fate,  but  you  form  part  of  it,  you  are  one 
of  its  voices.  Speak,  then;  that  is  the  law  of  your  being. 
Speak  out  your  whole  thought,  but  with  kindness;  be  like 
a  good  mother.  It  may  not  be  given  to  her  to  make  men 
of  her  children,  but  she  can  patiently  teach  them  how  to 
make  men  of  themselves  if  they  will. 

You  cannot  set  others  free,  in  spite  of  them,  and  from 
the  outside;  and  even  if  it  were  possible,  what  good  would 
it  do?  If  they  do  not  free  themselves,  tomorrow  they  will 
fall  back  into  slavery.  All  you  can  do  is  to  set  a  good 
example,  and  say:  "  There  is  the  road,  follow  it  and  you 
will  find  Freedom."  .... 


In  spite  of  his  resolution  to  do  the  best  he  could  and 
leave  the  rest  to  the  gods,  it  was  fortunate  for  Clerambault 
that  he  could  not  see  all  the  consequences  of  his  ideas. 
His  thought  aspired  to  the  reign  of  Peace;  and  very 
probably  it  would  contribute  in  some  degree  to  the  stirring 
up  of  social  struggles,  like  all  true  pacifism,  however  para- 
doxical this  may  seem.  For  true  pacifism  is  a  condemna- 
tion of  the  present. 

Clerambault  had  no  suspicion  of  the  terrible  forces  that 
would  one  day  make  use  of  his  name.  With  a  wholly  oppo- 
site effect,  his  spirit  produced  a  harmony  among  his  young 
associates  by  reacting  against  their  violence.  He  felt  the 
value  of  life  all  the  more,  because  they  held  it  in  such 
light  esteem;  and  in  this  respect  they  were  not  different 
from  the  Nationalists  whom  he  opposed.  Very  few  prefer 
life  to  their  ideals — which  is,  we  are  told,  one  of  Man's 
noblest  qualities. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  it  was  a  pleasure  to  Clerambault  when 
he  met  a  man  who  loved  life  for  its  own  sake.  This  was 
a  comrade  of  Moreau's,  who  had  also  been  severely 
wounded.  His  name  was  Gillot,  and  in  civil  life  he  had 
been  an  industrial  designer,  A  shell  had  plastered  him  from 
head  to  foot ;  he  had  lost  a  leg  and  his  ear-drum  yras  broken, 
but  he  had  re-acted  more  energetically  against  his  fate  than 
Moreau,  He  was  small  and  dark,  with  bright  eyes  full  of 
gaiety,  in  spite  of  all  that  he  had  gone  through.  Though 
he  agreed  with  Moreau  in  general  as  to  the  war  and  the 
crimes  of  the  social  order,  he  viewed  the  same  events  and 
the  same  men  with  different  eyes;  from  which  arose  many 
discussions  between  the  two  young  men. 


200  CLERAMBAULT 

One  day  Moreau  had  just  been  telling  Clerambanlt  of 
some  gloomy  experience  of  the  trenches:  ''  Yes,"  said 
Gillot,  "  it  did  happen  like  that  and  the  worst  of  it  was, 
that  it  had  no  effect  on  us,  not  the  least  little  bit."  And 
when  Moreau  protested  indignantly:  "Well,  perhaps  you, 
and  one  or  two  more  may  have  minded  a  little, — but  most 
of  them  did  not  even  notice  it."  He  kept  on  to  stop  fur- 
ther remonstrances  from  his  friend:  "I  am  not  trying  to 
make  out  that  you  were  better  than  the  rest,  old  man, 
there  is  no  need  for  that;  I  only  say  it  because  it  is  so. 
Look  here,"  he  added,  turning  to  Clerambault,  "  those  who 
have  come  back  and  written  about  all  this,  they  tell  us, 
of  course,  what  they  felt.  But  they  felt  more  than  ordinary 
mortals  because  they  were  artists,  and  naturally  everything 
got  on  their  nerves,  while  the  rest  of  us  were  tougher.  Now 
that  I  think  of  it,  that  makes  it  more  terrible;  when  you 
read  these  stories  that  sicken  you,  and  make  the  hair  stand 
up  on  your  head,  you  don't  get  the  full  effect.  Think  of 
fellows  looking  on,  smoking,  chaffing,  busy  with  something 
else.  You  have  to,  you  know,  or  you  would  go  all  to  pieces. 
...  All  the  same,  it  is  astonishing  what  human  crea- 
tures can  get  used  to!  I  believe  they  could  make  them- 
selves comfortable  at  the  bottom  of  a  sewer.  It  really  dis- 
gusts a  man,  for  I  was  just  the  same  myself.  You  mustn't 
suppose  that  I  was  like  this  chap  here,  always  staring  at  a 
death's  head.  Like  everybody  else,  I  thought  the  whole 
thing  was  idiotic;  but  life  is  like  that,  as  far  as  I  can  see! 
.  .  .  We  did  what  we  had  to  do,  and  let  it  go  at  that; — 
the  end?  Well,  one  is  as  good  as  another,  whether  you 
lose  your  own  skin  or  the  war  comes  to  an  end,  it  finishes 
it  up  all  the  same;  and  in  the  meantime  you  are  alive,  you 
eat,  you  sleep,  your  bowels — excuse  me,  one  must  tell  things 
as  they  are!  .  .  .  Do  you  want  to  know  what  is  at  the 
bottom  of  it  all.  Sir?  The  real  truth  is  that  we  do  not 
care  for  life,  or  not  enough.    In  one  of  your  articles  you 


CLERAMBAULT  201 

say  very  truly  that  life  is  the  great  thing; — only  you 
wouldn't  think  so  to  see  most  people  at  this  minute!  Not 
much  life  about  them;  they  all  seem  drowsy,  waiting  for 
the  last  sleep;  it  looks  as  if  they  said  to  themselves:  'We 
are  flat  on  oiu*  backs  now,  no  need  to  stir  an  inch.*  No, 
we  don't  make  enough  out  of  life.  And  then  people  are 
always  trying  to  spoil  it  for  you.  From  the  time  you  are 
a  child  they  keep  on  telling  you  about  the  beauty  of  death, 
or  about  dead  folks.  In  the  catechism,  in  the  history 
books,  they  are  always  shouting:  *  Mourir  four  la  Patriel ' 
It  is  either  popery  or  patriotism,  whichever  you  please; 
and  then  this  life  of  the  present  day  is  a  perfect  nuisance; 
it  looks  as  if  it  was  made  expressly  to  take  the  backbone 
out  of  a  man.  There  is  no  more  initiative.  We  are  all 
nothing  but  machines,  but  with  no  real  system;  we  only 
do  pieces  of  work,  never  knowing  where  our  work  will  fit 
in;  most  often  it  doesn't  fit  at  all.  It  is  all  a  mess,  with 
no  good  in  it  for  anyone;  we  are  thrown  in  on  top  of  one 
another  like  herrings  in  a  barrel,  no  one  knows  why; — but 
then  we  don't  know  either  why  we  live  at  all ;  it  is  not  life, 
we  are  just  there. 

"  They  tell  us  about  some  time  in  the  dark  ages  when  our 
grandfathers  took  the  Bastille.  Well,  you  would  think  to 
hear  the  fakers  talk  who  run  things  now  that  there  was 
nothing  left  to  do,  that  we  were  all  in  heaven;  you  can  see 
it  carved  on  the  monuments.  We  know  that  it  is  not  so; 
there  is  another  pot  boiling,  another  .evolution  on  the  way; 
but  the  old  one  did  not  do  such  great  things  for  us  after 
all!  It's  hard  to  see  plain,  hard  to  trust  anybody;  there 
is  no  one  to  show  us  the  way,  to  point  to  something  grand 
and  fine  above  all  these  swamps  full  of  toads.  .  .  .  People 
are  always  doing  something  to  confuse  the  issue,  nowadays; 
talking  about  Right,  Justice,  Liberty.  But  that  trick  is 
played  out.  Good  enough  to  die  for,  but  you  can't  live  for 
things  like  that." 


2oa  CLERAMBAULT 

"  How  about  the  present?  "  asked  Clerambault. 

"  Now?  There  is  no  going  back,  but  I  often  think  that 
if  I  had  to  begin  over  again — " 

"When  did  you  change  your  mind  about  all  these 
things?  " 

"  That  was  the  funniest  thing  of  all.  It  was  as  soon  as 
I  was  wounded.  It  was  like  getting  out  of  bed  in  the  morn- 
ing. I  had  hardly  slipped  a  leg  out  of  life  than  I  wanted 
to  draw  it  in  again.  I  had  been  so  well  off,  and  never 
thought  of  it,  ass  that  I  was!  I  can  still  see  myself,  as  I 
came  to.  The  groimd  was  all  torn  up  around  me,  worse  even 
than  the  bodies  themselves  lying  in  heaps,  mixed  pell-mell 
like  a  lot  of  jack-straws;  the  ground  simply  reeked,  as  if  it 
was  itself  bleeding.  It  was  pitch  dark,  and  at  first  I  did  not 
feel  anything  but  the  cold,  except  that  I  knew  I  was  hit,  all 
right.  ...  I  didn't  know  exactly  what  piece  of  me  was 
missing,  but  I  was  not  in  a  hurry  to  find  out;  I  was  afraid 
to  know,  afraid  to  stir,  there  was  only  one  thing  I  was 
sure  of,  that  I  was  alive.  If  I  had  only  a  minute  left,  I 
meant  to  hold  on  to  it.  .  .  .  There  was  a  rocket  in  the 
sky;  I  never  thought  what  it  meant,  I  didn't  care,  but  the 
curve  it  made,  and  the  light,  like  a  bright  flower.  .  .  . 
I  can't  tell  you  how  lovely  it  seemed.  I  simply  drank  it 
in.  ...  I  remembered  when  I  was  a  child,  one  night  near 
La  Samaritaine.  There  were  fireworks  on  the  river.  That 
child  seemed  to  be  someone  else,  who  made  me  laugh,  and 
yet  I  was  sorry  for  him;  and  then  I  thought  that  it  was  a 
good  thing  to  be  alive,  and  grow  up,  and  have  something, 
somebody,  no  matter  who  to  love  .  .  .  even  that  rocket; 
and  then  the  pain  came  on,  and  I  began  to  howl,  and  didn't 
know  any  more  till  I  found  myself  in  the  ambulance.  There 
wasn't  much  fun  in  living  then;  it  felt  as  if  a  dog  was 
gnawing  my  bones  .  .  .  might  as  well  have  stayed  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hole  .  .  .  but  even  then  how  fine  it  seemed 
to  live  the  way  I  used  to,  just  live  on  every  day  without 


CLERAMBAULT  003 

pain  .  .  .  think  of  that!  and  we  never  notice  it, — ^with- 
out any  pain  at  all  .  .  .  none!  ...  it  seemed  like  a 
dream,  and  when  it  did  let  up  for  a  second,  just  to  taste 
the  air  on  your  tongue,  and  feel  light  all  over  your  body — 
God  Almighty!  to  think  that  it  was  like  that  all  the  time 
before,  and  I  thought  nothing  of  it.  .  .  .  What  fools  we 
are  to  wait  till  we  lose  a  thing  before  we  understand  it! 
And  when  we  do  want  it,  and  ask  pardon  because  we  did 
not  appreciate  it  before,  all  we  hear  is:  *  Too  late!  ' " 
"  It  is  never  too  late,"  said  Clerambault. 


GiLLOT  was  only  too  ready  to  believe  this;  as  an  edu- 
cated workman  he  was  better  armed  for  the  fray  than 
Moreau  or  Clerambault  himself.  Nothing  depressed  him 
for  long;  "  fall  down,  pick  yourself  up  again,  and  try  once 
more,"  he  would  say,  and  he  always  believed  he  could 
surmount  any  obstacle  that  barred  his  way.  He  was  ready 
to  march  against  them  on  his  one  leg,  the  quicker  the 
better.  Like  the  others,  he  was  devoted  to  the  idea  of 
revolution  and  found  means  to  reconcile  it  with  his  opti- 
mism; everything  was  to  pass  off  quietly  according  to  him, 
for  he  was  a  man  without  rancour. 

It  would  not  have  been  safe,  however,  to  trust  him  too 
much  in  this  respect;  there  are  many  surprises  in  these 
plebeian  characters,  for  they  are  very  easily  moved  and 
apt  to  change.  Clerambault  heard  him  one  day  talking 
with  a  friend  named  Lagneau  on  leave  from  the  front; 
they  said  the  poilus  meant  to  knock  everything  to  pieces 
when  the  war  was  over,  maybe  before.  A  man  of  the 
lower  classes  in  France  is  often  charming,  quick  to  seize 
on  your  idea  before  you  have  had  a  chance  to  explain  it 
thoroughly;  but  good  Lord!  how  soon  he  forgets.  He 
forgets  what  was  said,  what  he  answered,  what  he  saw, 
what  he  believed,  what  he  wanted;  but  he  is  always  sure 
of  what  he  says,  and  sees,  and  thinks  now.  When  Gillot 
was  talking  to  Lagneau,  his  arguments  were  exactly  con- 
trary*  to  those  he  had  advanced  on  the  previous  day  to 
Clerambault.  It  was  not  only  that  his  ideas  had  changed, 
but  apparently  his  whole  disposition.  One  morning  there 
would  be  nothing  violent  enough  for  his  thirst  for  action 
and  destruction,  and  the  next  he  would  talk  about  going 
into  a  little  business  with  lots  of  money,  the  best  of  food, 

204 


CLERAMBAULT  205 

a  tribe  of  children  to  bring  up,  and  to  hell  with  the  rest  I 
Though  they  all  called  themselves  sincere  internationalists, 
there  were  few  among  these  poilus  who  had  not  preserved 
the  old  French  prejudice  of  superiority  of  race  over  the 
rest  of  the  world,  enemies  or  friends;  and  even  in  their 
own  country  over  the  other  provinces,  or  if  they  were 
Parisians,  over  the  rest  of  France.  This  idea  was  firmly 
embedded  in  their  minds,  and  they  boasted  of  it,  not  mali- 
ciously but  by  way  of  a  joke.  Uncomplaining,  willing, 
always  ready  to  go,  like  Gillot,  they  were  certainly  capable 
of  making  a  revolution  and  then  un-making  it,  starting 
another,  and  so  on — tra-la-la — till  all  was  upset  and  they 
were  ready  to  be  the  prey  of  the  first  adventurer  who  hap- 
pened along.  Our  political  foxes  know  well  enough  that 
the  best  way  to  check  a  revolution  is,  at  the  right  moment, 
to  let  it  blow  over  while  the  people  are  amused. 

It  looked  then  as  if  the  hour  was  at  hand.  A  year  before 
the  end  of  the  war  in  both  camps  there  were  months  and 
weeks  when  the  infinite  patience  of  the  martyrised  people 
seemed  on  the  point  of  giving  way;  when  a  great  cry  was 
ready  to  go  up,  "  Enough."  For  the  first  time  there  was 
the  universal  impression  of  a  bloody  deception.  It  is  easy 
to  understand  the  indignation  of  the  people  seeing  billions 
thrown  away  on  the  war  when  before  it  their  leaders  had 
haggled  over  a  few  hundred  thousand  for  social  better- 
ments. There  were  figures  that  exasperated  them  more 
than  any  speeches  on  the  subject.  Someone  had  calculated 
that  it  cost  75,000  francs  to  kill  a  man;  that  made  ten 
millions  of  corpses,  and  for  the  same  sum  we  could  have 
had  ten  millions  of  stockholders.  The  stupidest  could  see 
the  immense  value  of  the  treasure,  and  the  horrible,  the 
shameful,  waste  for  an  illusion.  There  were  things  more 
abject  still;  from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other,  there 
were  vermin  fattening  on  death,  war-profiteers,  robbers  of 
corpses. 


2o6  CLERAMBAULT 

"  Do  not  talk  to  us  any  more,"  said  these  young  men  to 
themselves,  "  of  the  struggle  of  democracies  against  autoc- 
racies;— they  are  all  tarred  with  the  same  brush.  In  all 
countries  the  war  has  pointed  out  the  leaders  to  the 
vengeance  of  the  people;  that  imworthy  middle  class,  po- 
litical, financial,  intellectual,  that  in  a  single  century  of 
power  has  heaped  on  the  world  more  exactions,  crimes, 
ruins  and  follies,  than  kings  and  churches  had  inflicted  in 
ten  centuries." 

This  is  why  when  the  axes  of  those  heroic  woodsmen, 
Lenine  and  Trotzky,  were  heard  in  the  forest,  many  op- 
pressed hearts  thrilled  with  joy  and  hope,  and  in  every 
country  there  was  sharpening  of  hatchets.  The  leading 
classes  rose  up  against  the  common  danger,  all  over  Europe, 
in  both  opposing  camps.  There  was  no  negotiation  needed 
for  them  to  reach  an  agreement  on  this  subject,  for  their 
instinct  spoke  loudly.  The  fiercest  enemies  of  Germany, 
through  the  organs  of  the  bourgeoisie,  tacitly  gave  a  free 
hand  to  the  Kaiser  to  strangle  Russian  liberty  which  struck 
at  the  root  of  that  social  injustice  on  which  they  all  lived. 
In  the  absurdity  of  their  hatred,  they  could  not  conceal 
their  delight  when  they  saw  Prussian  Militarism — that 
monster  who  afterwards  turned  on  them — avenge  them  on 
these  daring  rebels.  Naturally  this  only  increased  the 
admiration  for  these  excommunicated  defiers  of  the  world, 
on  the  part  of  the  down-trodden  masses  and  the  small  num- 
ber of  independent  spirits. 

The  pot  began  to  boil  with  a  vengeance,  and  to  stop  it 
the  governments  of  Europe  shut  down  the  lid  and  sat  on 
it.  The  stupid  class  in  control  kept  throwing  fuel  on  the 
flame,  and  then  wondered  at  the  alarming  rumblings.  This 
revolt  of  the  elements  was  attributed  to  the  wicked  de- 
signs of  some  free  speakers,  to  mysterious  intrigues,  to 
the  enemy's  gold,  to  the  pacifists;  and  none  of  them  saw — 
thou^  a  child  would  have  known  it — that,  if  they  wanted 


CLERAMBAULT  207 

to  prevent  an  explosion,  the  first  thing  to  do  was  to  put 
out  the  fire.  The  god  of  all  these  powers  was  force;  no 
matter  what  they  were  called,  empires,  or  republics,  it  was 
the  mailed  fist,  disguised,  gloved  but  hard  and  sure  of  itself. 
It  became  also,  like  a  rising  tide,  the  law  of  the  oppressed, 
a  dark  struggle  between  two  contrary  pressures.  Where  the 
metal  had  worn  thin — in  Russia  first — the  boiler  had 
burst.  Where  there  were  cracks  in  the  cover — as  in  neutral 
countries — the  hissing  steam  escaped,  but  a  deceitful  calm 
reigned  over  the  countries  at  war,  kept  down  by  oppression. 
To  the  oppressors  this  calm  was  reassuring;  they  were 
armed  equally  against  the  enemy  or  their  own  citizens. 
The  machine  of  war  is  double-ended,  the  cover  strong,  made 
of  the  best  steel,  and  firmly  screwed  down;  that,  at  least, 
cannot  be  torn  off — no,  but  suppose  the  whole  thing  blows 
up  together! 

Repressed,  like  everyone  else,  Clerambault  saw  rebellion 
gathering  around  him.  He  understood  it,  thought  it  in- 
evitable; but  that  was  not  a  reason  for  loving  it.  He  did 
not  believe  in  the  Amor  Fati.  It  was  enough  to  under- 
stand; the  tyrant  has  no  claim  to  be  loved. 


Clerambault's  young  friends  were  not  sparing  of  their 
ideas,  and  it  surprised  them  to  see  how  little  warmth  he 
showed  towards  the  new  idol  from  the  North:  the  rule  of 
the  proletariat.  They  had  no  timorous  scruples  or  half- 
measures,  they  meant  to  make  the  world  happy  in  their 
way — ^perhaps  not  in  its  own.  At  one  stroke  they  decreed 
the  suppression  of  all  liberties  in  opposition  to  theirs;  the 
fallen  middle  classes  were  not  to  be  allowed  to  meet,  or  to 
vote,  or  to  have  the  freedom  of  the  press. 

"  This  is  all  very  well,"  said  Clerambault,  "  but  at  this 
rate  they  will  be  the  new  proletariat,  tyranny  will  merely 
change  places." 

"  Only  for  a  time,"  was  the  answer,  "  the  last  oppression, 
which  will  kill  tyranny." 

"  Yes,  the  same  old  war  for  right  and  liberty;  which 
is  always  going  to  be  the  war  to  end  war;  but  in  the  mean- 
time it  is  stronger  than  ever,  and  rights  like  liberty  are 
trampled  under  foot." 

Of  course  they  all  protested  indignantly  against  this 
comparison;  in  their  eyes  war  and  those  who  waged  it 
were  equally  infamous. 

"  None  the  less,"  said  Clerambault  gently,  "  many  of  you 
have  fought,  and  nearly  all  of  you  have  believed  in  it  .  .  . 
no,  do  not  deny  it!  Besides,  the  feeling  that  inspired  you 
had  its  noble  side;  a  great  wickedness  was  shown  to  you, 
and  you  threw  yourselves  upon  it  to  root  it  out,  in  a  very 
fine  spirit.  Only  you  seem  to  think  that  there  is  only  one 
wickedness  in  the  world,  and,  that  when  that  has  been 
purged  away,  we  shall  all  return  to  the  Golden  Age.  The 
same  thing  happened  at  the  time  of  the  Dreyfus  Case; 
all  (he  well-meaning  people  of  Europe — I  among  them — 

20S 


CLERAMBAULT  200 

seemed  never  to  have  heard  before  of  the  condemnation  of 
an  innocent  man.  They  were  terribly  upset  by  it,  and  they 
turned  the  world  inside  out  to  wash  off  the  impurity.  Alas! 
this  was  done,  but  both  washers  and  washed  grew  dis- 
couraged in  the  process,  and  when  it  was  all  over,  lo, — the 
world  was  just  as  black  as  ever!  It  seems  as  if  man  were 
incapable  of  grasping  the  whole  of  human  misery ;  he  dreads 
to  see  the  extent  of  the  evil,  and  in  order  not  to  be  over- 
whelmed by  it,  he  fixes  on  some  one  point,  where  he  localises 
all  the  trouble,  and  will  see  nothing  further.  All  this  is 
human  nature,  and  easy  enough  to  understand,  my  friends; 
but  we  should  have  more  courage,  and  acknowledge  the 
truth  that  the  evil  is  everywhere;  among  ourselves,  as  well 
as  with  the  enemy.  You  have  found  this  out  little  by  little 
in  our  own  country,  and  seeing  the  tares  in  the  wheat,  you 
want  to  throw  yourselves  against  your  governments  with 
the  same  fury  that  made  you  see  incarnate  evil  in  the  person 
of  the  enemy.  But  if  ever  you  recognise  that  the  tares  are 
in  you  also,  then  you  may  turn  on  yourselves  in  utter 
despair.  Is  not  this  much  to  be  feared,  after  the  revolu- 
tions we  have  seen,  where  those  who  came  to  bring  jus- 
tice found  themselves,  without  knowing  why,  with  soiled 
hands  and  hearts?  You  are  like  big  children.  When  will 
you  cease  to  insist  on  the  absolute  good?  " 

They  might  have  replied  that  you  must  will  the  abso- 
lute, in  order  to  arrive  at  the  real;  the  mind  can  dally 
with  shades  of  meaning,  which  are  impossible  to  action, 
where  it  must  be  all  or  nothing.  Clerambault  had  the  choice 
between  them  and  their  adversaries;  there  was  no  other. 

Yes,  he  knew  it  well  enough;  there  was  no  other  choice 
in  the  field  of  action,  where  all  is  determined  in  advance. 
Just  as  the  unjust  victory  leads  inevitably  to  the  revenge 
which  in  its  turn  will  be  unjust,  so  capitalistic  oppression 
will  provoke  the  proletarian  revolution,  which  will  follow 
the  bad  example  and  oppress,  when  it  has  the  power — an 


210  CLERAMBAULT 

endless  chain.  Here  is  a  stern  Greek  justice  which  the 
mind  can  accept  and  even  honour  as  the  rule  of  the  uni- 
verse. But  the  heart  cannot  submit,  cannot  accept  it.  Its 
mission  is  to  break  the  law  of  universal  warfare.  Can  it 
ever  come  to  pass?  Who  can  tell!  But  in  any  case  it  is 
clear  that  the  hopes  and  wishes  of  the  heart  are  outside  the 
order  of  nature;  her  mission  is  rather  above  nature,  and 
in  its  essence  religious. 

Clerambault,  who  was  filled  with  this  spirit,  did  not  as 
yet  dare  to  avow  it;  or  at  least  he  did  not  venture  to  use 
the  word  "  religious,"  that  word  which  the  religions,  that 
have  so  little  of  its  spirit,  have  discredited  in  the  eyes 
of  today. 


If  Clerambault  himself  could  not  see  clearly  into  his  own 
thought,  it  was  hardly  to  be  expected  that  his  young  friends 
should  do  so,  and  even  if  they  had  seen,  they  would  never 
have  understood.  They  could  not  bear  the  idea  that  a  man 
who  condemned  the  present  state  of  things  as  bad  and 
destructive,  should  hesitate  at  the  most  energetic  methods 
for  its  suppression.  They  were  not  wrong  from  their  point 
of  view,  which  was  that  of  immediate  action,  but  the  field 
of  the  mind  is  greater,  its  battles  cover  a  wider  space;  it 
does  not  waste  its  energies  in  bloody  skirmishes.  Even 
admitting  the  methods  advocated  by  his  friends,  Cleram- 
bault could  not  accept  their  axiom,  that  "  the  end  justifies 
the  means."  For,  on  the  contrary,  he  believed  that  the 
means  are  even  more  important  to  real  progress  than  the 
end  .  .  .  what  end?    Will  there  ever  be  such  a  thing? 

This  idea  was  irritating  and  confusing  to  these  young 
minds;  it  served  to  increase  a  dangerous  hostility,  which 
had  arisen  in  the  last  five  years  among  the  working  class, 
against  the  intellectuals.  No  doubt  the  latter  had  richly 
deserved  it;  how  far  away  seemed  the  time  when  men  of 
thought  marched  at  the  head  of  revolutions!  Whereas  now 
they  were  one  with  the  forces  of  reaction.  Even  the  limited 
number  of  those  who  had  kept  aloof,  while  blaming  the 
mistakes  of  the  ring,  were,  like  Clerambault,  unable  to  give 
up  their  individualism,  which  had  saved  them  once,  but  now 
held  them  prisoners,  outside  the  new  movement  of  the 
masses.  This  conclusion  once  reached  by  the  revolutionists, 
it  was  but  one  step  to  a  declaration  that  the  intellectuals 
must  fall,  and  not  a  very  long  step.  The  pride  of  the  work- 
ing class  already  showed  itself  in  articles  and  speeches, 
while  waiting  for  the  moment  when,  as  in  Russia,  it  could 

an 


212  CLERAMBAULT 

pass  to  action;  and  it  demanded  that  the  intellectuals 
should  submit  servilely  to  the  proletarian  leaders.  It  was 
even  remarkable  how  some  of  the  intellectuals  were  among 
the  most  eager  in  demanding  this  lowering  of  the  position 
of  their  group.  One  would  have  thought  that  they  did 
not  wish  it  to  be  supposed  that  they  belonged  to  it.  Per- 
haps they  had  forgotten  that  they  did. 

Moreau,  however,  had  not  forgotten  it;  he  was  all  the 
more  bitter  in  repudiating  this  class,  whose  shirt  of  Nessus 
still  clung  to  his  skin,  and  it  made  him  extremely  violent. 

He  now  began  to  display  singularly  aggressive  sentiments 
towards  Clerambault;  during  a  discussion  he  would  inter- 
rupt him  rudely,  with  a  kind  of  sarcastic  and  bitter  irrita- 
tion.   It  almost  seemed  as  if  he  meant  to  wound  him. 

Clerambault  did  not  take  offence;  he  rather  felt  great 
pity  for  Moreau;  he  knew  what  he  suffered,  and  he  could 
imagine  the  bitterness  of  a  young  life  spoiled  like  his. 
Patience  and  resignation,  the  moral  nourishment  on  which 
stomachs  fifty  years  old  subsist,  were  not  suited  to  his 
youth. 

One  evening  Moreau  had  shown  himself  particularly  dis- 
agreeable, and  yet  he  persisted  in  walking  home  with  Cler- 
ambault, as  if  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  leave  him. 
He  walked  along  by  his  side,  silent  and  frowning.  All  at 
once  Clerambault  stopped,  and  putting  his  hand  through 
Moreau's  arm  with  a  friendly  gesture  said  with  a  smile: 

"  It's  all  wrong,  isn't  it,  old  fellow?  " 

Moreau  was  somewhat  taken  aback,  but  he  pulled  him- 
self together  and  asked  drily  what  made  anyone  think  that 
things  were  "  all  wrong." 

"  I  thought  so  because  you  were  so  cross  tonight,"  said 
Clerambault  good  natupedly,  and  in  answer  to  a  protesting 
murmur.  "  Yes,  you  certainly  were  trying  to  hurt  me, — 
just  a  little.  ...  I  know  of  course  that  you  would  not 
really, — ^but  when  a  man  like  you  tries  to  inflict  pain  on 


CLERAMBAULT  213 

others  it  is  because  he  is  suffering  himself  .  .  .  itn't  that 
true?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  true,"  said  Moreau,  "  you  must  forgive  me, 
but  it  hurts  me  when  I  see  that  you  are  not  in  sympathy 
with  our  action." 

"  And  are  you?  "  demanded  Clerambault.  Moreau  did 
not  seem  to  understand.  "  You  yourself,"  repeated  Cleram- 
bault, "  do  you  believe  in  it?  " 

"Of  course  I  do!  What  a  question!  "'  said  Moreau 
indignantly. 

"  I  doubt  it,"  said  Clerambault  gently.  Moreau  seemed 
to  be  on  the  point  of  losing  his  temper,  but  in  a  moment 
he  said  more  quietly:  "  You  are  mistaken."  Clerambault 
turned  to  walk  on.  "  All  right,"  said  he,  "  you  know  your 
own  thoughts  better  than  I  do." 

For  some  minutes  they  continued  in  silence;  then  Moreau 
seized  his  old  friend's  arm,  and  said  excitedly: 

"  How  did  you  know  it?  " — and  his  resistance  having 
broken  down,  he  confessed  the  despair  hidden  under  his 
aggressive  determination  to  believe  and  act.  He  was  eaten 
up  with  pessimism,  a  natural  consequence  of  his  excessive 
idealism  which  had  been  so  cruelly  disappointed.  The  re- 
ligious souls  of  former  times  were  tranquil  enough;  they 
placed  the  kingdom  of  God  so  far  away  that  no  event  could 
touch  it;  but  those  of  today  have  established  it  on  earth, 
by  the  work  of  human  love  and  reason,  so  that  when  life 
deals  a  blow  at  their  dream  all  life  seems  horrible  to  them. 
There  were  days  when  Moreau  was  tempted  to  cut  his 
throat  1  Humanity  seemed  made  of  rotteness;  he  saw  with 
despair  the  defeats,  failures,  flaws  carved  on  the  destiny 
of  the  race  from  the  very  beginning — the  worm  in  the  bud — 
and  he  could  not  endure  the  idea  of  this  absurd  and  tragic 
fate,  which  man  can  never  escape.  Like  Clerambault,  he 
recognized  the  poison  which  is  in  the  intelligence,  since  he 
had  it  in  his  veins,  but  unlike  his  elder,  who  had  passed  the 


214  CLERAMBAULT 

crisis  and  only  saw  danger  in  the  irregularity  of  thought 
and  not  in  its  essence,  Moreau  was  maddened  by  the  idea 
that  the  poison  was  ar  necessary  part  of  intelligence.  His 
diseased  imagination  tortured  him  by  all  sorts  of  bugbears; 
thought  appeared  to  him  as  a  sickness,  setting  an  indelible 
mark  on  the  human  race;  and  he  pictured  to  himself  in  ad- 
vance all  the  cataclysms  to  which  it  led.  Already,  thought 
he,  we  behold  reason  staggering  with  pride  before  the  forces 
that  science  has  put  at  her  disposal — demons  of  nature, 
obedient  to  the  magical  formulas  of  chemistry  and  dis- 
tracted by  this  suddenly-acquired  power,  turning  to  self- 
destruction. 

Nevertheless  Moreau  was  too  young  to  remain  in  the  grip 
of  these  terrors.  He  wanted  action  at  any  price,  anything 
sooner  than  to  be  left  alone  with  them.  Why  not  urge  him 
to  act,  instead  of  trying  to  hold  him  back? 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  Clerambault,  "  it  is  not  right  to 
urge  another  man  to  a  dangerous  act,  unless  you  are  ready 
to  share  it.  I  have  no  use  for  agitators,  even  if  they  are 
sincere,  who  send  others  to  the  stake  and  do  not  set  the 
example  of  martyrdom  themselves.  There  is  but  one  truly 
sacred  type  of  revolutionary,  the  Crucified;  but  very  few 
men  are  made  for  the  aureole  of  the  cross.  The  trouble  is 
that  we  always  assign  duties  to  ourselves  which  are  super- 
human or  inhuman.  It  is  not  good  for  the  ordinary  man 
to  strive  after  the  "  Uebermenschheit,"  and  it  can  only 
prove  to  him  a  source  of  useless  suffering;  but  each  man  can 
aspire  to  shed  light,  order,  peace,  and  kindness  around  him 
in  his  little  circle;  and  that  should  be  happiness  enough." 

"  Not  quite  enough  for  me,"  said  Moreau.  "  Doubt 
would  creep  in;  it  must  be  all  or  nothing." 

"  I  know.  Your  revolution  would  leave  no  place  for 
doubt.  Your  hearts  are  hard  and  burning;  your  brains  like 
geometric  patterns.  Everything  or  nothing.  No  shading! 
But  what  would  life  be  without  it?    It  is  its  greatest  charm 


CLERAMBAULT  515 

and  its  chief  merit  as  well;  fragile  beauty  and  goodness, 
weakness  everywhere.  We  must  offer  love  and  help ;  day  by 
day,  and  step  by  step.  The  world  is  not  transformed  by  force, 
or  by  a  miracle,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye;  but  second  by 
second  it  moves  forward  in  infinity  and  the  humblest  who 
feels  it  partakes  of  infinity.  Patience,  and  let  us  not  think 
that  one  wrong  effaced  will  save  humanity;  it  will  only 
make  one  day  bright,  but  other  days  and  more  light  will 
come;  each  will  bring  its  sun.  You  would  not  wish  to  stay 
its  course?  " 

"  We  have  not  the  time  to  wait  for  all  this,"  said  Moreau. 
"  Every  day  brings  us  frightful  problems  which  must  be 
decided  on  the  spot.  If  we  are  not  to  be  the  masters,  then 
we  shall  be  victims;  .  .  .  we,  do  I  say?  Not  ourselves 
alone,  we  are  already  victimised,  but  all  that  is  dear  to 
us,  all  that  holds  us  to  life,  hope  in  the  future,  the  salva- 
tion of  humanity.  See  the  things  that  press  upon  us,  the 
agonising  questions  as  to  those  who  will  come  after  us,  and 
those  who  have  children.  This  war  is  not  yet  over,  and  it 
is  only  too  evident  that  its  crimes  and  falsehoods  have 
sown  the  seeds  of  new  wars,  near  at  hand.  Why  do  we 
have  children?  For  what  do  they  grow  up?  To  be 
butchered  like  this?  Look  where  you  will,  there  is  no 
answer.  Are  we  to  leave  these  cra^  countries,  this  old 
continent,  and  emigrate?  But  where?  Are  their  fifty 
acres  of  ground  on  the  globe  where  independent  honest 
people  can  take  refuge?  We  must  be  on  one  side  or  the 
other;  you  see  well  enough  that  we  have  to  choose  between 
patriotism  and  revolution.  If  not,  what  remains?  Non- 
resistance?  Is  that  what  you  would  have?  But  there  is 
nothing  in  that  unless  you  have  religious  faith;  otherwise 
it  is  only  the  resignation  of  the  lamb  led  to  the  slaughter. 
Unfortunately,  the  greater  number  decide  on  nothing,  prefer 
not  to  think,  turn  their  eyes  away  from  the  future,  blinded 
by  the  hope  that  what  they  have  seen  and  suffered  will  not 


2i6  CLERAMBAULT 

recur.  That  is  why  we  must  decide  for  them,  whether  they 
want  it  or  not,  make  them  quicken  their  step,  save  them  in 
spite  of  themselves.  Revolution  means  a  few  men  who  will 
for  all  humanity." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  I  should  like  it,"  said  Clerambault, 
"  if  another  decided  for  me.  And  on  the  other  hand,  I 
should  not  want  to  usurp  another  man's  will;  I  should 
prefer  to  leave  each  one  free,  and  not  interfere  with  the 
liberty  of  others.    But  I  know  that  I  am  asking  too  much." 

"  Only  what  is  impossible,"  said  Moreau.  "  When  you 
begin  to  will,  you  cannot  stop  halfway.  There  are  just 
two  sorts  of  men,  those  who  have  too  great  will-power — 
like  Lenine,  and  a  couple  of  dozen  men  in  the  whole  course 
of  history — and  those  who  have  too  little,  who  can  decide 
nothing,  like  us,  me,  if  you  like.  It  is  clear  enough,  despair 
is  all  that  drives  me  to  will  anything.  ..." 

"  Why  despair?  "  said  Clerambault.  "  A  man's  fate  is 
made  every  day  by  himself,  and  none  knows  what  it  will 
be;  it  is  what  we  are.  If  you  are  cast  down,  so  also  is 
your  fate." 

"  We  shall  never  have  strength  enough,"  answered 
Moreau  sadly.  "  Don't  you  believe  that  I  see  what  in- 
finitely small  chances  of  success  a  revolution  would  have 
now  in  our  country,  under  present  conditions?  Think  of 
all  the  destruction,  the  economic  losses,  the  demoralisation, 
the  fatal  lassitude  caused  by  the  war."  And  he  added:  "  It 
was  not  true  what  I  told  you  the  first  time  we  met,  about 
all  my  comrades  feeling  as  I  did,  rebelling  against  the  suf- 
fering. Gillot  told  you  there  are  only  a  few  of  us,  and  the 
others  are  good  fellows  for  the  most  part  but  weak  as 
water!  They  can  see  how  things  are,  clearly  enough,  but 
sooner  than  run  their  heads  against  a  wall  they  would 
rather  not  think  about  it,  or  pass  it  off  with  a  joke.  We 
French  are  always  ready  to  laugh,  it  is  our  treasure  and 
our  ruin.    It  is  a  fine  thing,  but  what  a  hold  it  gives  to 


CLERAMBAULT  2*17 

our  oppressors.  *  Let  them  sing  as  long  as  they  are  willing 
to  pay,'  as  the  Italian  said.  '  Let  us  laugh,  so  long  as  we 
are  ready  to  die.'  ...  we  might  say.  And  then  this 
terrible  force  of  habit,  that  Gillot  was  talking  about.  A 
man  will  get  used  to  no  matter  what  ridiculous  or  painful 
conditions,  provided  they  last  long  enough,  and  that  he  has 
company.  He  becomes  habituated  to  cold,  to  heat,  to 
death,  and  to  crime.  His  whole  force  for  resistance  is  used 
in  adapting  himself;  and  then  he  curls  up  in  his  corner 
and  does  not  dare  to  stir,  for  fear  that  any  change  will  bring 
back  the  pain.  We  are  all  so  terribly  tired!  When  the 
soldiers  come  back,  they  will  have  only  one  thought — to 
sleep  and  forget." 

"  How  about  the  excitable  Lagneau,  who  talks  about 
blowing  everything  to  pieces?  " 

*'  I  have  known  Lagneau  since  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
and  he  has  been  in  succession,  royalist,  "  revanchard," 
annexationist,  internationalist,  socialist,  anarchist,  bolshe- 
vist,  and  I-don't-give-a  damnist.  He  will  finish  as  a  re- 
actionary, and  will  be  sent  to  make  food  for  cannon  against 
the  enemy  that  our  government  will  pick  out  among  orn: 
adversaries  or  our  friends  of  today.  Do  you  suppose  that 
the  people  are  of  our  way  of  thinking?  Perhaps,  or  they 
may  agree  with  the  others.  They  will  take  up  all  opinions 
one  after  the  other." 

"  You  are  a  revolutionary  then  because  you  are  dis- 
couraged? "  said  Qerambault,  laughing. 

"  There  are  plenty  like  that  among  us." 

"  Gillot  came  out  of  the  war  more  cptimistic  than  he 
went  in." 

"  Gillot  is  the  forgetful  sort,  but  I  don't  envy  him  that," 
said  Moreau  bitterly. 

"  But  you  ought  not  to  upset  him,"  said  Clerambault. 
"  Gillot  needs  all  the  help  you  can  give  him." 

"  Help  from  me?  "  said  Moreau  incredulously. 


2i8  CLERAMBAULT 

"  He  is  not  naturally  strong,  and  if  you  would  make  him 
so,  you  must  let  him  see  that  you  believe  in  him." 

"  Do  you  think  belief  comes  by  willing  to  have  it?  " 

"  You  know  whether  that  is  true!  No,  I  think,  is  the 
answer.    Belief  comes  through  love." 

"  By  love  of  those  who  believe?  " 

"  Is  it  not  always  through  love,  and  only  in  that  way, 
that  we  learn  to  trust?  " 

Moreau  was  touched;  he  had  been  a  clever  youth,  eaten 
up  by  the  craving  for  knowledge,  and  like  the  rest  of  his 
class,  he  had  suffered  for  lack  of  brotherly  affection.  True 
human  intercourse  is  banished  from  the  education  of  today, 
but  this  vital  sentiment,  hitherto  repressed,  had  revived  in 
the  trenches,  filled  with  living,  suffering  flesh  thrown  to- 
gether. At  first  it  was  hard  to  let  oneself  go;  the  general 
hardening,  the  fear  of  sentimentality  or  of  ridicule,  tended 
to  put  barriers  between  hearts;  but  when  Moreau  was  laid 
up,  his  sheath  of  pride  began  to  give  way,  and  Clerambault 
had  little  difficulty  in  breaking  through  it.  The  best  thing 
about  this  man  was  that  false  pride  melted  before  him,  for 
he  had  none  of  his  own;  people  showed  to  him  as  he  to 
them  their  real  selves,  their  weakness  and  their  troubles, 
which  we  are  taught  to  hide  from  a  silly  idea  of  self-respect. 
Moreau  had  unconsciously  learned  to  recognise  at  the  front 
the  superiority  of  men  who  were  his  social  inferiors,  brother- 
soldiers  or  "  Non-Coms."  Among  these  he  had  been  much 
drawn  to  Gillot.  He  was  glad  that  Clerambault  should 
have  appealed  to  him  on  behalf  of  his  friend,  for  his  secret 
wish  always  was  to  be  of  some  use  to  another  man. 

At  the  next  opportunity  Clerambault  whispered  to  Gillot 
that  he  ought  to  be  optimistic  for  two,  and  cheer  Moreau 
up;  and  thus  each  found  help  in  the  need  of  helping  the 
other,  according  to  the  great  principle  of  life:  "  Give,  and 
it  shall  be  givMi  unto  you." 

No  matter  in  what  time  one  lives,  nor  what  misfor- 


CXERAMBAULT  219 

tunes  overtake  one,  all  is  not  lost  as  long  as  there  remains 
in  the  heart  of  the  race  a  spark  of  manly  friendship.  Blow 
it  into  a  flame!  Draw  closer  these  cold  solitary  hearts! 
If  only  one  of  the  fruits  of  this  war  of  nations  could  be 
the  fusion  of  the  best  among  all  classes,  the  union  of  the 
youth  of  many  countries — of  the  manual  labourers  and  the 
thinkers — the  future  would  be  re-born  through  their 
mutual  aid. 


But  if  unity  is  not  one  wanting  to  dominate  the  other, 
neither  is  it  that  one  prefers  to  be  dominated.  But  this 
was  precisely,  however,  what  these  young  revolutionaries 
thought,  and  insisted  upon,  with  a  curious  sort  of  self-will. 
They  snubbed  Clerambault,  on  the  principle  that  intelli- 
gence should  be  at  the  service  of  the  proletariat.  .  .  . 
"  Dienen,  dienen  ..."  which  was  the  last  word  even  of 
the  proud  Wagner.  More  than  one  lofty  spirit  brought  low 
has  said  the  same;  if  they  could  not  rule  supreme,  they 
would  serve. 

Clerambault  reflected:  "  The  rarest  thing  is  to  find  honest 
people  who  want  to  be  simply  my  equals;  but  if  we  must 
choose,  tyranny  for  tyranny,  I  prefer  that  which  held  the 
bodies  of  JEsop  and  Epictetus  in  slavery  but  left  their 
minds  free,  to  that  which  promises  only  material  liberty 
and  enslaves  the  soul." 

This  intolerance  made  him  feel  that  he  could  never  attach 
himself  to  any  party,  no  matter  what  it  was.  Between  the 
two  sides,  war  or  revolution,  he  could  frankly  state  his  pref- 
erence for  one,  revolution.  For  it  alone  offered  some  hope 
for  the  future,  which  the  war  could  only  destroy.  But  to 
prefer  a  party  does  not  mean  that  you  yield  to  it  all  inde- 
pendence of  thought.  It  is  the  error  and  abuse  of  democ- 
racies that  they  wish  that  all  should  have  the  same  duties, 
and  impose  the  same  tasks  on  all ;  but  in  an  advancing  com- 
munity there  are  multiple  tasks.  While  the  main  body 
fights  to  gain  an  immediate  advantage  in  progress,  there  are 
otfiers  who  should  maintain  eternal  values  far  above  the 
victors  of  tomorrow  or  yesterday  and  which  are  beyond  all 
the  rest  and  throw  light  on  the  way  above  the  smoke  of 
battle.    Clerambault  had  allowed  himself  to  be  too  long 

220 


CLERAMBAULT  «! 

blinded  by  this  smoke;  he  could  not  plunge  into  a  fresh 
fight;  but  in  this  short-sighted  world  it  is  an  impropriety, 
almost  a  fault  to  see  more  clearly  than  your  nei^bours. 

This  sardonic  truth  was  brought  home  to  him  in  a  dis- 
cussion with  these  young  St.  Justs.  They  pointed  out  his 
mistakes,  impertinently  enough,  by  comparing  him  to  the 
"Astrologer  who  fell  into  the  Pit": 

.  .  .  "They  said,  poor  creature,  if  your  eye 

What  lies  beneath  can  hardly  spy. 

Think  you  your  gaze  can  pierce  the  sky  ?  " 

He  had  enough  sense  of  humour  to  see  the  justice  of  the 
comparison;  yes,  he  was  of  the  number  of: 

"Those  whom  phantoms  alarm 
While  some  serious  harm 
Threatens  them  or  their  farm." 

"  Even  so,"  he  said,  "  do  you  think  that  your  republic 
will  have  no  need  of  astronomers,  just  as  the  first  one  could 
get  along  without  chemists?  Or  are  they  all  to  be  mobi- 
lised? In  that  case  there  would  be  a  good  chance  of  your 
all  finding  yourselves  together  at  the  bottom  of  the  well! 
Is  that  what  you  want?  I  should  not  object  so  much  if 
it  were  only  a  question  of  sharing  your  fate,  but  when  it 
comes  to  joining  in  your  hatreds!  " 

"  You  have  some  of  your  own,  from  what  I  have  heard," 
said  one  of  the  yoimg  men.  Just  at  this  moment  another 
man  came  in  with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand  and  called  to 
Clerambault: 

"  Congratulations,  old  boy,  I  see  your  enemy  Bertin  is 
dead." 

The  irascible  journalist  had  died  in  a  few  hours  from  an 
attack  of  pneumonia.  For  the  last  si.x  months  he  had  pur- 
sued with  fury  anyone  whom  he  suspected  of  working  for 
peace,  or  even  of  wishing  for  it.    From  one  step  to  another 


222  CLERAMBAULT 

he  had  come  to  look  upon,  not  only  the  country,  as  sacred, 
but  the  war  also,  and  among  those  whom  he  attacked  most 
fiercely,  Clerambault  had  a  foremost  place.  Bertin  could 
not  pardon  the  resistance  to  his  onslaughts;  Clerambault's 
replies  had  at  first  only  irritated  him,  but  the  disdainful 
silence  with  which  his  latest  invectives  had  been  met 
drove  him  beside  himself.  His  swollen  vanity  was  deeply 
wounded,  and  nothing  would  have  satisfied  him  but  the 
total  annihilation  of  his  adversary.  To  him  Clerambault 
was  not  only  a  personal  enemy,  but  a  foe  to  the  public ;  and 
in  the  endeavour  to  prove  this,  he  made  him  the  centre  of 
a  great  pacifist  plot.  At  any  other  time,  this  would  have 
seemed  absurd  in  everyone's  eyes,  but  now  no  one  had  eyes 
to  see  with.  During  the  last  weeks  Bertin's  fury  and  vio- 
lence had  gone  beyond  anything  that  he  had  written  before; 
they  were  a  threat  against  anyone  who  was  convicted  or 
suspected  of  the  dangerous  heresy  of  Peace. 

In  this  little  reunion  the  news  of  his  death  was  received 
with  noisy  satisfaction;  and  his  funeral  oration  was 
preached  with  an  energy  that  yielded  nothing  in  this  line 
to  the  efforts  of  the  most  famous  masters.  But  Cleram- 
bault, absorbed  in  the  newspaper  account,  scarcely  seemed 
to  hear.  One  of  the  men  standing  near,  tapped  him  on  the. 
shoulder,  and  said: 

"  This  ought  to  be  a  pleasure  to  you." 

Clerambault  started:  "Pleasure,"  he  said,  "pleasure?" 
— ^he  took  his  hat  and  went  out.  It  was  pitch  dark  in  the 
street  outside,  all  the  lights  having  been  out  on  account  of 
an  air-raid.  Before  his  mind  there  flowered  the  fine  clear- 
cut  face  of  a  boy  of  sixteen,  with  its  warm  pale  skin  and 
dark  soft  eyes,  the  curling  hair,  the  mobile,  smiling  mouth, 
the  tone  of  the  sweet  voice — Bertin,  as  he  was  when  they 
first  met  at  about  the  same  age.  Their  long  evening  talks, 
the  tender  confidences,  the  discussions,  the  dreams  .  .  . 
for  in  those  days  Bertin  too  was  a  dreamer,  and  even  his 


CXERAMBAULT  223 

common-sense,  his  precocious  irony  did  not  protect  him 
from  impossible  hopes  and  generous  schemes  for  the  renova- 
tion of  the  human  race.  How  fair  the  future  had  appeared 
to  their  youthful  eyes!  And  in  those  moments  of  ecstatic 
vision  how  their  hearts  had  seemed  to  melt  together  in 
loving  friendship.  .    .    . 

And  now  to  see  what  life  had  made  of  them  both!  This 
rancorous  struggle,  Ber tin's  insane  determination  to  trample 
under  foot  those  early  dreams,  and  the  friend  who  still 
cherished  them; — and  he,  too,  Clerambault,  who  had  let 
himself  be  carried  away  by  the  same  murderous  impulse, 
trying  to  render  blow  for  blow,  to  draw  blood  from  his 
adversary.  Could  it  be  that  at  the  first  moment,  whea 
he  heard  of  the  death  of  his  former  friend — ^he  was  hor- 
rified at  himself — but  did  he  not  feel  it  as  a  relief?  What 
is  it  that  possesses  us  all?  What  wicked  insanity  that 
turns  us  against  our  better  selves?  .   .    . 

Lost  in  these  thoughts,  he  had  wandered  from  the  road, 
and  now  perceived  that  he  was  walking  in  the  wrong  direc- 
tion. He  could  see  the  long  arms  of  the  search-lights 
stretching  across  the  sky,  hear  the  tremendous  explosions 
of  the  Zeppelin  bombs  over  the  city,  and  the  distant  growl- 
ings  of  the  forts  in  the  aerial  fight.  The  enraged  people 
tearing  each  other  to  pieces!  And  to  what  end?  That 
they  all  might  be  as  Bertin  was  now,  reach  the  extinction 
which  awaited  all  men,  and  all  countries.  And  those  rebels 
who  were  planning  more  violence,  other  sanguinary  idols 
to  set  up  against  the  old  ones,  new  gods  of  carnage  that 
man  carves  for  himself,  in  the  vain  hope  of  ennobling  his 
deadly  instincts! 

Good  God!  Why  do  they  not  see  the  imbecility  of  their 
conduct,  in  face  of  the  gulf  that  swallows  up  each  man 
that  dies,  all  humanity  with  him?  These  millions  of  crea- 
tures who  have  but  a  moment  to  live,  why  do  they  persist 
in  making  it  infernal  by  their  atrocious  and  absurd  quarrels 


224  CLERAMBAULT 

about  ideas;  like  wretches  who  cut  each  other's  throats 
for  a  handful  of  spurious  coins  thrown  to  them?  Wt  are 
all  victims,  under  the  same  sentence,  and  instead  of  uniting, 
we  fight  among  ourselves.  Poor  fools!  On  the  brow  of 
each  man  that  passes  I  can  see  the  sweat  of  agony;  efface 
it  by  the  kiss  of  peace! 

As  he  thought  this,  a  crowd  of  people  rushed  by — men 
and  women,  shrieking  with  joy.  "  There's  one  of  them 
down!     One  gone!     The  brutes  are  burning  up!  " 

And  the  birds  of  prey,  in  the  air,  rejoiced  in  their  turn 
over  every  handful  of  death  that  they  scattered  on  the  town, 
like  gladiators  dying  in  the  arena  for  the  pleasure  of  some 
invisible  Nero. 

Alas,  my  poor  fellow-prisoners! 


PART  FIVE 


They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait. 

Milton. 

Once  more  Clerambaiilt  found  himself  wrapt  in  solitude; 
but  this  time  she  appeared  to  him  as  never  before,  calm 
and  beautiful,  kindness  shining  from  her  face,  with  eyes 
full  of  affection  and  soft  cool  hands  which  she  laid  on  his 
fevered  forehead.  He  knew  that  now  she  had  chosen  him 
for  her  own. 

It  is  not  given  to  every  man  to  be  alone;  many  groan 
under  it,  but  with  a  secret  pride.  It  is  the  complaint  of 
the  ages;  and  proves,  without  those  who  complain  being 
aware  of  it,  that  solitude  has  not  marked  them  for  her  own; 
that  they  are  not  her  familiars.  They  have  passed  the  outer 
door,  and  are  cooling  their  heels  in  the  vestibule;  but  they 
have  not  had  patience  to  wait  their  turn  to  go  in,  or  else 
their  recriminations  have  kept  them  at  a  distance. 

No  one  can  penetrate  to  the  heart  of  friendly  solitude 
unless  they  have  the  gift  of  God's  grace,  or  have  gained 
the  benefit  of  trials  bravely  accepted.  Outside  the  door 
you  must  leave  the  dust  of  the  road,  the  harsh  voices  and 
mean  thoughts  of  the  world,  egotism,  vanity,  miserable 
rebellions  against  disappointments  in  love  or  ambition. — It 
must  be  that,  like  the  pure  Orphic  shades  whose  golden 
tablets  have  transmitted  to  us  their  dying  voices,  "  The 
soul  flees  from  the  circle  of  pain  "  and  presents  itself  alone 
and  bare  "  to  the  chill  fountain  which  flows  from  the  lake 
of  Memory." 

This  is  the  miracle  of  the  resurrection;  he  who  has  cast 
off  his  mortal  coil  and  thinks  that  he  has  lost  everything, 
finds  that  he  is  only  just  entering  on  his  true  life.  Not 
only  are  others  as  well  as  himself  restored  to  him,  but  he 

23Z 


aaS  CLERAMBAULT 

sees  that  up  to  now  he  has  never  really  possessed  them. 
Outside  in  the  throng,  how  can  he  see  over  the  heads  of 
those  who  press  about  him?  And  it  is  not  possible  for  him 
to  look  long  into  the  eyes  of  those  who  influence  him,  even 
though  they  are  his  dearest,  for  they  are  pressed  too  close 
against  him.  There  is  no  time;  no  perspective.  We  feel 
only  that  our  bodies  are  crushed  together,  closely  entwined 
by  our  common  destiny,  and  tossed  on  the  muddy  torrent 
of  multitudinous  existence.  Clerambault  felt  that  he  had 
not  seen  his  son  in  any  real  sense  until  after  his  death; 
and  the  brief  hour  in  which  he  and  Rosine  had  recognised 
each  other  was  one  in  which  the  bonds  of  a  baleful  delu- 
sion had  been  broken  by  the  force  of  suffering. 

Now  that  by  means  of  successive  eliminations,  he  had 
arrived  at  solitude,  he  felt  withdrawn  from  the  passions 
of  the  living,  but  they  stood  out  all  the  more  to  him  in  a 
kind  of  lucid  intimacy.  All,  not  only  his  wife  and  children, 
but  the  millions  of  beings  whom  he  had  thought  to  embrace 
in  an  oratorical  affection;  they  all  painted  themselves  on 
the  dark  background.  On  the  sombre  river  of  destiny 
which  sweeps  humanity  away,  and  which  he  had  confounded 
with  it,  appeared  millions  of  struggling  living  fragments — 
men;  and  each  had  his  own  personality,  each  was  a  whole 
world  of  joy  and  sorrow,  dreams  and  efforts  and  each  was  I. 
I  bend  over  him  and  it  is  myself  I  see;  "  I,"  say  the  eyes, 
and  the  heart  repeats  "  I."  My  brothers,  at  last  I  under- 
stand you,  for  your  faults  are  also  mine,  even  to  the  fury 
with  which  you  pursue  me;  I  recognise  that  also,  for  it  is 
once  more  I. 


From  this  time  onward  Clerambault  began  to  see  men, 
not  with  the  eyes  in  his  head,  but  with  his  heart; — no 
longer  with  ideas  of  pacifism,  or  Tolstoism  {another  jolly) j 
but  by  seizing  the  thoughts  of  his  fellows  and  putting  him- 
self in  their  place.  He  began  to  discover  afresh  the  people 
around  him,  even  those  who  had  been  most  hostile  to  him, 
the  intellectuals,  and  the  politicians;  and  he  saw  plainly 
their  wrinkles,  their  white  hair,  the  bitter  lines  about  their 
mouths,  their  bent  backs,  their  shaky  legs.  .  .  .  Over- 
wrought, nervous,  ready  to  break  down,  .  .  .  how  much 
they  had  aged  in  six  months!  The  excitement  of  the 
fight  had  kept  them  up  at  first;  but  as  it  went  on  and,  no 
matter  what  the  issue,  the  ruin  became  plain;  each  one  had 
his  griefs,  and  each  feared  to  lose  the  little — but  that  little, 
infinitely  precious — remained  to  him.  They  tried  to  hide 
their  agony,  and  clenched  their  teeth,  but  all  suffered. 
Doubt  had  begun  to  undermine  the  most  confident,  "  Hush, 
not  a  word!  it  will  kill  me  if  you  speak  of  it."  .  .  .  Cler- 
ambault, full  of  pity,  thought  of  Madame  Mairet;  he  must 
hold  his  tongue  in  future; — but  it  was  too  late,  they  all 
knew  now  what  he  thought,  and  he  was  a  living  negation 
and  remorse  to  them.  Many  hated  him,  but  Clerambault 
no  longer  resented  it;  he  was  almost  ready  to  help  them 
to  restore  their  lost  illusions. 

These  souls  were  full  of  a  passionate  faith  which  they 
felt  to  be  threatened ;  and  this  lent  them  a  quality  of  tragic, 
pitiable  greatness.  With  the  politicians  this  was  compli- 
cated by  the  absurd  trappings  of  theatrical  declamation; 
with  the  intellectuals  by  the  obstinacy  of  mania;  but  in 
%pitc  of  all,  the  wounds  were  visible,  you  could  hear  the  cry 

309 


230  CXERAMBAULT 

of  the  heart  that  clings  to  belief,  that  calls  for  an  heroic 
delusion. 

This  faith  was  very  touching  in  some  young  and  simple 
people;  no  declamations,  no  pretensions  to  knowledge;  only 
the  desperate  clinging  of  a  devotion  which  has  given  all, 
and  in  return  asks  for  one  word  only:  "It  is  true.  .  .  . 
Thou,  my  beloved,  my  Country,  power  divine,  still  livest, 
to  whom  I  have  offered  up  my  life,  and  all  that  I  loved!  " — 
One  could  kneel  before  those  poor  little  black  gowns,  before 
those  mothers,  wives  and  sisters;  one  longed  to  kiss  the  thin 
hands  that  trembled  with  the  hope  and  fear  of  the  here- 
after, and  say:  "  Mourn  not, — for  ye  shall  be  comforted." 

What  consolation  can  one  offer,  when  one  does  not  believe 
in  the  ideal  for  which  they  lived,  and  which  is  killing 
them? — The  long-sought  answer  finally  came  to  Cleram- 
bault,  almost  unconsciously:  "  You  must  care  for  men 
more  than  for  illusion,  or  even  for  truth." 


Clehambault's  warm  feelings  were  not  reciprocated; 
and  he  was  more  attacked  than  ever,  though  for  some 
months  he  had  published  nothing.  In  the  autumn  of  19 17 
the  anger  against  him  had  risen  to  an  unheard-of  height. 
The  disproportion  was  really  laughable  between  this  rage 
and  the  feeble  words  of  one  man,  but  it  was  so  all  over 
the  world.  A  dozen  or  so  weak  pacifists,  alone,  surrounded, 
without  means  of  being  heard  through  any  paper  of  stand- 
ing, spoke  honestly  but  not  loudly,  and  this  let  loose  a 
perfect  frenzy  of  insults  and  threats.  At  the  slightest  con- 
tradiction the  monster  Opinion  fell  into  an  epileptic  fit. 

The  prudent  Perrotin  who,  as  a  rule,  was  surprised  at 
nothing,  kept  quiet,  and  let  Clerambault  ruin  himself  his 
own  way;  but  even  he  was  alarmed  by  this  explosion  of 
tyrannical  stupidity.  In  history  and  at  a  distance  it  could 
be  laughed  at;  but  close  at  hand  it  looked  as  if  the  human 
brain  was  about  to  give  way.  Why  is  it  that  in  this  war 
men  lost  their  mental  balance  more  than  in  any  other  at 
any  previous  time?  Has  the  war  been  really  more  atro- 
cious? That  is  either  childish  nonsense,  or  a  deliberate 
forgetfulness  of  what  has  happened  in  our  own  day,  under 
our  eyes ;  in  Armenia,  in  the  Balkans ;  during  the  repression 
of  the  Commune,  in  colonial  wars  under  new  conquistadors 
in  China  and  the  Congo.  .  .  .  Of  all  animals  we  know, 
the  human  beast  has  always  been  the  most  ferocious.  Then 
is  it  because  men  had  more  faith  in  the  war  of  today? 
Surely  not.  The  western  peoples  had  reached  the  point  of 
evolution  when  war  seemed  so  absurd  that  we  could  no 
longer  practise  it  and  preserve  our  reason. 

We  are  obliged  to  intoxicate  ourselves,  to  go  crazy,  unless 
we  would  die  the  despairing  death  of  darkest  pessimism; 

231 


232  CLERAMBAULT 

and  that  is  why  the  voice  of  one  sane  man  threw  into  fits 
of  rage  all  the  others  who  wanted  to  forget;  they  were 
afraid  that  this  voice  would  wake  them  up,  and  that  they 
would  find  themselves  sobered,  disgraced,  and  without  a 
rag  to  cover  them. 

It  was  all  the  worse  because  at  this  time  the  war  was 
going  badly  and  the  fine  hopes  of  victory  and  glory  which 
had  been  lighted  up  so  many  times  were  beginning  to  die 
out.  It  began  to  be  probable,  no  matter  which  way  you 
looked  at  it,  that  the  war  would  be  a  failure  for  everybody. 
Neither  interest,  nor  ambition,  nor  ideals  would  get  any- 
thing out  of  it,  and  the  bitter  useless  sacrifice,  seen  at  close 
range,  with  nothing  gained,  made  men  who  felt  themselves 
responsible,  furious.  They  were  forced  either  to  accuse 
themselves  or  throw  the  blame  on  others,  and  the  choice 
was  quickly  made.  The  disaster  was  attributed  to  all  those 
who  had  foreseen  the  defeat  and  tried  to  prevent  it.  Every 
retreat  of  the  army,  every  diplomatic  blunder  found  an 
excuse  in  the  machinations  of  the  pacifists,  and  these  un- 
popular gentry  to  whom  no  one  listened  were  invested  by 
their  opponents  with  the  formidable  power  of  organising 
defeat.  In  order  that  none  should  be  ignorant  of  this,  a 
writing  was  hung  about  their  necks  with  the  word  "  De- 
featist," like  their  brother-heretics  of  the  good  old  days; 
all  that  remained  was  to  burn  them,  and  if  the  executioner 
was  not  at  hand  there  were  at  least  plenty  of  assistants. 

At  first,  by  way  of  getting  their  hand  in,  the  authorities 
picked  out  inoffensive  people — women,  teachers,  anyone 
who  was  little  known  and  unable  to  defend  himself;  and 
then  they  turned  their  attention  to  something  bigger.  It 
was  a  good  chance  for  a  politician  to  rid  himself  of  a  dan- 
gerous rival,  of  anyone  possessed  of  secrets  or  likely  to  rise 
in  the  future.  Above  all,  according  to  the  old  receipts,  they 
took  care  to  mix  accusations,  throwing  into  the  same  bag 
vulgar  sharpers  and  those  whose  character  and  mind  made 


CLERAMBAXJLT  233 

them  uneasy,  so  that  in  all  this  mess  the  blindfolded  public 
did  not  attempt  to  distinguish  between  an  honest  man  and 
a  scamp.  In  this  way  those  who  were  not  sufficiently  com- 
promised by  their  actions  found  themselves  involved  in 
those  of  their  associates;  and  if  these  were  lacking,  the 
authorities  stood  ready,  if  necessary,  to  supply  them  made 
to  order  to  fit  the  accusation. 

When  Xavier  Thouron  first  came  to  see  Clerambault  how 
could  anyone  know  if  he  was  in  the  Secret  Service?  He 
might  very  well  have  come  of  his  own  accord;  and  it  was 
impossible  to  say  what  his  intentions  were,  perhaps  he 
hardly  knew  himself?  In  the  purlieus  of  a  great  city  there 
are  always  unscrupulous  adventurers  rushing  about  seddng 
whom  they  may  devour.  They  have  ravenous  appetites, 
and  curiosity  to  match,  and  anything  will  do  to  fill  up  this 
aching  void.  They  are  willing  to  say  black  is  white;  all  is 
grist  that  comes  to  their  mill,  and  they  are  capable  of 
throwing  you  into  the  water  one  minute  and  jumping  in  to 
save  you  the  next.  They  are  not  too  careful  of  their  skins, 
but  the  animal  inside  has  to  be  fed  and  amused.  If  he 
stopped  making  faces  and  stuffing  for  one  moment,  he  might 
die  of  boredom  and  disgust  at  his  own  vacancy;  but  he  is 
too  clever  for  that,  he  will  not  stop  to  think  until  he  dies — 
splendidly,  on  his  feet,  like  the  Roman  Emperor. 

No  one  could  have  told  Thouron's  real  object  when  he 
went  for  the  first  time  to  Clerambault's  house.  As  usual 
he  was  very  busy,  excited  and  on  the  scent  of  he  knew  not 
what.  He  was  one  of  those  great  journalists — they  are  rare 
in  the  profession — who,  without  taking  the  trouble  to  read 
a  thing,  can  give  you  a  vivid,  brilliant  account  of  it,  which 
often,  by  a  miracle,  proves  to  be  fairly  just.  He  said  his 
little  "  piece  "  to  Clerambault  without  too  many  mistakes, 
and  appeared  to  believe  it;  perhaps  he  did  while  the  words 
were  on  his  lips.  Why  not?  He  was  a  sort  of  pacifist  him- 
self from  time  to  time;  it  depended  on  the  direction  of  the 


234  CLERAMBAULT 

wind,  or  the  attitude  of  certain  of  his  brother-writers  whom 
he  sometimes  followed,  and  occasionally  opposed.  Cleram- 
bault  could  never  cure  himself  of  a  childlike  trust  in  anyone 
who  came  to  him,  and  he  allowed  himself  to  be  touched; — 
besides,  the  press  of  his  country  had  not  spoiled  him  of  late, 
so  he  poured  out  the  inmost  thoughts  of  his  heart,  while 
Thouron  took  it  all  in  with  the  deepest  interest. 

An  acquaintance  thus  closely  formed  could  not,  of  course, 
stop  there;  letters  were  exchanged,  in  which  one  spoke,  and 
the  other  led  him  on.  Thouron  persuaded  Clerambault 
to  put  his  ideas  in  the  form  of  little  popular  pamphlets, 
which  he  undertook  to  distribute  among  the  working 
classes.  Clerambault  hesitated,  and  refused  at  first.  The 
partisans  of  the  reigning  order  and  injustice  pretend  hypo- 
critically to  disapprove  of  the  secret  propaganda  of  a  new 
truth;  Clerambault  saw  no  harm  in  it,  when  no  other  way 
was  possible.  (All  persecuted  faiths  have  their  catacombs.) 
But  he  did  not  feel  himself  suited  to  such  a  course  of 
action.  It  was  more  his  part  to  say  what  he  thought  and 
take  the  consequences,  and  he  felt  sure  that  the  word  would 
spread  of  itself,  without  his  hawking  it  about.  He  would 
have  blushed  to  admit  it,  but  perhaps  a  secret  instinct  held 
him  back  from  the  offers  of  service  made  him  by  this  eager 
"  drummer."  But  he  could  not  altogether  restrain  his  zeal. 
Thouron  published  in  his  paper  a  sort  of  Apologia  for  Cler- 
ambault. He  told  of  his  visits,  and  their  conversations; 
and  he  explained  and  paraphrased  the  thoughts  of  the  poet. 
Clerambault  was  astonished  when  he  read  them,  he  hardly 
knew  his  own  ideas  again,  but  nevertheless,  he  could  not 
altogether  deny  them,  for,  buried  among  Thouron's  com- 
mentaries, he  found  literal  and  accurate  quotations  from  his 
letters.  These,  however,  were  even  more  confusing;  the 
same  words  and  phrases,  grafted  on  other  contexts,  took  on 
an  accent  and  a  colour  that  he  had  not  given  them.  Add 
that  the  censor,  in  his  zeal  for  the  safety  of  the  country, 


CLERAMBAULT  535 

had  tampered  with  the  quotations,  cutting  out  here  and 
there  a  word,  half  a  line,  or  the  end  of  a  paragraph — all 
perfectly  innocent,  but  this  suppression  suggested  the  worst 
iniquities  to  the  over-excited  mind  of  the  reader.  All  this 
was  like  oil  on  the  flame,  and  the  effect  was  soon  felt. 
Clerambault  did  not  know  which  way  to  turn  to  keep  his 
champion  quiet;  and  yet  he  could  not  be  angry  with  him, 
for  Thouron  had  his  share  of  threats  and  insults;  but  he 
was  used  to  things  of  this  kind,  and  they  fell  from  him, 
like  water  off  a  duck's  back. 

After  this  common  experience  Thouron  claimed  special 
rights  over  Clerambault;  and  having  tried  without  success 
to  make  him  buy  shares  in  his  newspaper,  he  put  him  on 
the  list  of  honourary  members,  without  his  knowledge,  and 
thought  it  very  strange  that  Clerambault  was  not  delighted 
when  he  found  it  out  a  few  weeks  later.  Their  relations 
were  slightly  cooled  by  this  incident,  but  Thouron  con- 
tinued to  parade  the  name  of  his  "  distinguished  friend  " 
from  time  to  time  in  his  articles.  The  latter  let  this  go  on, 
thinking  himself  fortunate  to  get  off  so  easily.  He  had 
rather  lost  sight  of  him,  when  he  heard  one  day  that 
Thouron  had  been  arrested.  He  was  implicated  in  a  rather 
shabby  money  affair  which  was  as  usual  ascribed  to  plots 
of  the  enemy.  The  Courts  following  the  lead  of  those 
"  higher-up  "  could  not  fail  to  find  a  connection  between 
these  shady  transactions  and  Thouron's  so-called  pacifism. 
This  had  showed  itself  in  his  paper,  in  an  irregular  inco- 
herent way,  subject  to  attacks  of  "  Exterminism,"  but  none 
the  less  it  was  all  supposed  to  be  part  of  the  great  "  de- 
featist "  scheme,  and  the  examination  of  his  correspondence 
allowed  the  authorities  to  drag  in  anyone  they  chose.  As 
he  had  carefully  kept  every  letter,  from  men  of  all  shades 
of  opinion,  there  were  plenty  to  choose  from  and  they  soon 
found  what  they  wanted. 

It  was  only  through  the  papers  that  Clerambault  heard 


236  CLERAMBAULT 

that  he  was  on  the  list,  and  they  breathed  a  triumphant: 
"  At  last  we  have  got  him."  ...  All  was  now  clear,  for 
if  a  man  thinks  differently  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  is 
it  not  plain  as  daylight  that  there  must  be  some  low  motive 
underneath  it  all?  Seek  and  you  will  find.  .  .  .  They 
had  found,  and  without  going  further,  one  Paris  newspaper 
announced  the  "  treason  "  of  Clerambault.  There  was  no 
trace  of  this  in  the  indictment;  but  justice  does  not  feel 
that  it  is  her  business  to  correct  people's  mistakes.  Cler- 
ambault was  summoned  before  the  magistrate,  and  begged 
in  vain  to  be  told  of  what  offence  he  was  accused.  The 
judge  was  polite,  showing  him  the  consideration  due  to  a 
man  of  his  notoriety,  but  seemed  in  no  haste  to  dismiss  the 
case;  it  almost  looked  as  if  he  was  waiting  for  something 
...  for  what?    Why  for  the  crime,  of  course! 


Madame  Clerambault  had  not  the  temper  of  a  Roman 
matron,  nor  even  of  that  high-spirited  Jewess  in  the  cele- 
brated affair  which  cut  France  in  two  some  twenty  years 
ago,  who  clung  more  closely  to  her  husband  on  account 
of  the  public  injustice.  She  had  the  timid  instinctive  re- 
spect of  the  French  bourgeoisie  for  the  official  verdict. 
Though  she  knew  that  there  were  no  grounds  for  the  accu- 
sation against  Clerambault,  she  felt  that  it  was  a  disgrace 
to  be  accused,  which  also  affected  her,  and  this  she  could 
not  bear  in  silence.  Unfortunately,  in  replying  to  her  re- 
proaches, Clerambault  took  the  worst  possible  line,  without 
meaning  it,  for  instead  of  trying  to  defend  himself,  he 
only  said: 

"  My  poor  wife,  it  is  awfully  hard  on  you.  .  .  .  Yes, 
you  are  right,"  and  then  waited  till  the  shower  was  over. 
But  this  tone  upset  Madame  Clerambault,  who  was  furious 
because  she  felt  she  had  no  hold  on  her  husband.  She 
knew  perfectly  that  though  he  appeared  to  agree  with  her 
she  could  not  turn  him  from  his  course  of  action.  Despair- 
ing of  success,  she  went  off  to  pour  her  troubles  into  the 
ears  of  her  brother.  Leo  Camus  made  no  attempt  to  dis- 
guise his  opinion  that  the  best  thing  she  could  do  was  to 
get  a  divorce,  which  he  represented  to  her  as  a  duty.  This, 
however,  was  going  a  little  too  far;  she  was,  after  all,  a 
respectable  bourgeoise,  and  the  traditional  horror  of  divorce 
re-awakened  her  profound  fidelity  and  made  her  think  the 
remedy  worse  than  the  disease;  so  they  remained  united  on 
the  surface,  but  intimacy  between  them  was  gone. 

Rosine  was  out  nearly  all  day,  for  in  order  to  forget  her 
unhappiness  she  was  taking  a  course  in  trained  nursing,  and 
she  passed  a  large  part  of  her  time  away  from  home.    Even 

337 


238  CLERAMBAULT 

when  she  was  at  home  her  thoughts  seemed  far  away,  and 
Clerambault  had  never  regained  his  former  place  in  his 
daughter's  heart;  another  filled  it  now — Daniel.  She  treated 
her  father  coldly;  he  was  the  cause  of  her  separation  from 
the  man  of  her  heart,  and  this  was  a  way  of  punishing  him. 
And  though  she  was  too  just  not  to  reproach  herself,  still 
she  could  not  alter;  injustice  is  sometimes  a  consolation, 

Daniel  had  not  forgotten,  any  more  than  Rosine;  he  was 
not  proud  of  his  conduct,  but  it  rather  softened  his  remorse 
to  throw  the  blame  on  his  surroundings,  on  the  tyrannical 
opinion  which  had  coerced  him;  but  in  his  heart  he  was 
discontented  with  himself. 

Accident  came  to  the  assistance  of  this  sulking  pair  of 
lovers.  Daniel  was  seriously  but  not  dangerously  wounded, 
and  was  evacuated  back  to  Paris.  During  his  convalescence 
he  was  walking  one  day  near  the  square  of  the  Bon  Marche 
when  he  saw  Rosine.  He  stood  still  a  moment  but  as  she 
came  forward,  without  hesitation,  they  went  on  into  the 
Square  and  began  a  long  conversation,  which,  beginning  by 
embarrassment,  and  interrupted  by  numerous  reproaches 
and  avowals,  led  finally  to  a  perfect  understanding  between 
them.  They  were  so  absorbed  in  their  tender  explanations, 
that  they  did  not  see  Madame  Clerambault  when  she  came 
near,  and  the  good  lady,  overcome  by  this  unexpected  meet- 
ing, hurried  home  to  tell  the  news  to  her  husband.  In 
spite  of  their  estrangement,  she  could  not  keep  this  to  her- 
self. He  listened  to  her  indignant  recital,  for  she  could  not 
bear  that  her  daughter  should  have  anything  to  do  with  a 
man  whose  family  had  affronted  them;  and  when  she  had 
finished  he  said  nothing  at  first,  according  to  his  present 
habit,  until  at  last  he  shook  his  head  smiling,  and  said: 

"  Good  enough." 

Madame  Clerambault  stopped  short,  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders, turned  to  go,  but  with  her  hand  on  the  door  of  her 
room  she  looked  back  and  said: 


CLERAMBAULT  239 

"These  people  insultpd  you;  Rosine  and  you  agreed  to 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  them,  and  now,  your 
daughter  is  making  advances  to  this  man  who  has  refused 
her,  and  you  say  it  is  *  good  enough,'  I  can't  imderstand 
you  any  longer,  you  must  be  out  of  your  mind." 

Clerambault  tried  to  show  her  that  his  daughter's  hap- 
piness did  not  consist  in  agreement  with  his  ideas,  and  that 
Rosine  was  quite  right  to  get  rid  of  the  consequences  of  his 
foolishness  where  they  affected  herself. 

"  Your  foolishness  .  .  .  that  is  the  first  word  of  sense 
that  you  have  said  in  years." 

"  You  see  yourself  that  I  am  right,"  said  he,  and  made 
her  promise  to  let  Rosine  arrange  her  romance  as  she 
pleased. 

The  girl  was  radiant  when  she  came  in,  but  she  said 
nothing  of  what  had  passed.  Madame  Clerambault  held  her 
tongue  with  great  difficulty,  and  the  father  saw  with  tender 
amusement  the  happiness  that  shone  once  more  on  the  face 
of  his  child.  He  did  not  know  exactly  what  had  happened, 
but  he  guessed  that  Rosine  had  thrown  him  and  his  ideas 
overboard — sweetly  of  course,  but  still, — the  lovers  had 
made  it  up  at  their  parents'  expense,  and  both  had  blamed 
with  admirable  justice  the  old  people's  exaggerations  on 
either  side.  The  years  in  the  trenches  had  emancipated 
Daniel  from  the  narrow  fanaticism  of  his  family,  without 
impairing  his  patriotism,  and  Rosine  in  exchange  had  gently 
admitted  that  her  father  had  been  mistaken.  They  agreed 
with  little  difficulty,  for  she  was  naturally  calm  and  fatal- 
istic, which  suited  perfectly  with  Daniel's  stoical  accept- 
ance of  things  as  they  were.  They  had  decided,  therefore, 
to  go  through  life  together,  without  paying  any  more  atten- 
tion to  the  disagreements  of  those  who  had  come  before 
them,  as  the  saying  is — though  it  would  be  more  exact 
to  say,  those  whom  they  were  leaving  behind  them.  The 
future  also  troubled   them  little;   like  millions  of  other 


240  CLERAMBAULT 

human  beings  they  only  asked  their  share  of  happiness  at 
the  moment  and  shut  their  eyes  to  everything  else. 

Madame  Clerambault  was  annoyed  that  her  daughter 
said  nothing  of  the  events  of  the  morning,  and  soon  went 
out  again;  Rosine  and  her  father  sat  dreamily,  he  by  the 
window,  smoking,  and  she  with  an  unread  magazine  before 
her.  She  looked  absently  about  the  room,  with  happy  eyes, 
trying  to  recall  the  details  of  the  scene  between  her  and 
Daniel;  her  glance  fell  on  her  father's  weary  face,  and  its 
melancholy  expression  struck  her  sharply.  She  got  up,  and 
standing  behind  him,  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and 
said,  with  a  little  si^  of  compassion  that  tried  to  conceal 
her  inward  joy: 

"  Poor  little  Papa!  " 

Clerambault  looked  at  Rosine,  whose  eyes,  in  spite  of 
herself,  shone  with  happiness: 

"  And  my  little  girl  is  not '  poor  '  any  longer,  is  she?  " 

Rosine  blushed:  "  Why  do  you  say  that?  "  she  asked. 

Clerambault  only  shook  his  head  at  her,  and  she  leaned 
forward  laying  her  cheek  against  his: 

"  She  is  no  longer  poor,"  he  repeated. 

"  No,"  she  whispered,  "  she  is  very,  very  rich." 

"  Tell  me  about  this  fortune  of  hers?  " 

"  She  has — first  of  all — ^her  dear  Papa." 

"Oh,  you  little  fraud!"  said  Clerambault,  tr)dng  to 
move  so  that  he  could  see  her  face,  but  Rosine  put  her 
hands  over  his  eyes: 

"  No,  I  don't  want  you  to  look  at  me,  or  say  anything 
to  me.  ..."    She  kissed  him  again,  and  said  caressingly: 

"  Poor  dear  little  Papa." 


RosiNE  had  now  escaped  from  the  cares  that  weighed  on 
the  house,  and  it  was  not  long  before  she  flew  away  from 
the  nest  altogether,  for  she  had  passed  her  examinations  and 
was  sent  to  a  hospital  in  the  South.  Both  the  Clerambaults 
felt  painfully  the  loss  to  their  empty  fireside. 

But  the  man  was  not  the  more  lonely  of  the  two.  He 
knew  this  and  was  sincerely  sorry  for  his  wife,  who  had  not 
either  the  strength  of  mind  to  follow  his  path,  nor  to  leave 
him.  As  for  him  he  felt  that  now,  no  matter  what  hap- 
pened, he  would  never  be  bereft  of  sympathy;  persecu- 
tion would  arouse  it,  and  lead  the  most  reserved  people  to 
express  their  feeling.  A  very  precious  evidence  of  this  came 
to  him  at  this  time. 

One  day,  when  he  was  alone  in  the  apartment,  the  bell 
rang  and  he  went  to  open  the  door.  A  lady  was  there 
whom  he  did  not  know;  she  held  out  a  letter,  mentioning 
her  name  as  she  did  so;  in  the  dim  light  of  the  vestibule, 
she  had  taken  him  for  the  servant,  but  at  once  saw  her 
mistake,  as  he  tried  to  persuade  her  to  come  in.  "  No," 
said  she,  "  I  am  only  a  messenger,"  and  she  went  away ; 
but  when  she  had  gone  he  found  a  little  bunch  of  violets 
that  she  had  laid  on  a  table  near  the  door.  The  letter 
was  as  follows: 

"  Tu  ne  cede  malts, 

se.d  contra  audenttor  ito  .    .    . 

"  You  fight  for  us,  and  our  hearts  are  with  you.  Pour 
out  your  troubles  to  us,  and  I  will  give  you  my  hope,  my 
strength,  and  my  love.  I  am  one  who  can  act  only  through 
you." 

341 


242  CXERAMBAULT 

The  youthful  ardour  of  these  last  mysterious  words, 
touched  and  puzzled  Clerambault.  He  tried  to  remember 
the  lady  as  she  stood  on  his  threshold;  she  was  not  very 
young;  fine  features,  grave  dark  eyes  in  a  worn  face. 
Where  had  he  seen  her  before?  The  fugitive  impression 
faded  as  he  tried  to  hold  it. 

He  saw  her  again  two  or  three  days  later,  not  far  from 
him  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens.  She  walked  on  and  as 
he  crossed  the  path  to  meet  her  she  stopped  and  waited  for 
him.  He  thanked  her,  and  asked  why  she  had  gone  away 
so  quickly  the  other  day,  without  saying  who  she  was. 
And  as  he  spoke  it  came  to  him  that  he  had  known  her 
for  a  long  time.  He  used  to  see  her  formerly  in  the 
Luxembourg,  or  in  the  neighbouring  streets,  with  a  tall  boy 
who  must  have  been  her  son.  Every  time  they  passed  each 
other  their  eyes  used  to  meet  with  a  half-smile  of  respect- 
ful recognition.  And  though  he  did  not  know  their  name, 
and  they  had  never  exchanged  a  word,  they  were  to  him 
part  of  those  friendly  shadows  which  throng  about  our  daily 
life,  not  always  noticed  when  they  are  there,  but  which 
leave  a  gap  when  they  disappear. 

At  once  his  thought  leaped  from  the  woman  before  him 
to  the  young  companion  whom  he  missed  from  her  side. 
In  these  days  of  mourning  you  could  never  tell  who  might 
be  still  in  the  land  of  the  living,  but  he  cried  impulsively: 

*'  It  was  your  son  who  wrote  to  me?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  he  is  a  great  admirer  of  yours.  We 
have  both  felt  drawn  to  you  for  a  long  time." 

"  He  must  come  to  see  me." 

"  He  cannot  do  that." 

"  Why  not?    Is  he  at  the  Front?  " 

"No,  he  is  here."  After  a  moment's  silence,  Cleram- 
bault asked: 

"  Has  he  been  wounded?  " 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  him?  "  said  the  mother.    Cler- 


CLERAMBAULT  243 

ambault  walked  beside  her  in  silence,  not  daring  to  ask  any 
questions,  but  at  last  he  said:  "  You  are  fortunate  at  least 
that  you  can  have  him  near  you  always.  ..."  She  under- 
stood and  held  out  her  hand:  "We  were  always  very  close 
to  one  another,"  she  said,  and  Clerambault  repeated: 

"  At  least  he  is  near  you." 

"  I  have  his  soul,"  she  answered. 

They  had  now  reached  the  house,  an  old  seventeenth 
century  dwelling  in  one  of  the  narrow  ancient  streets  be- 
tween the  Luxembourg  and  St.  Sulpice,  where  the  pride  of 
old  France  still  subsists  in  retirement.  The  great  door  was 
shut  even  at  this  hour.  Madame  Froment  passed  in  ahead 
of  Clerambault,  went  up  two  or  three  stq)s  at  the  back  of 
a  paved  court,  and  entered  the  apartment  on  the  ground 
floor. 

"  Dear  Edme,"  said  she,  as  she  opened  the  door  of  the 
room,  "  I  have  a  surprise  for  you,  guess  what  it  is.  .  .  . " 


Clerambault  saw  a  young  man  looking  at  him  as  he 
lay  extended  on  a  couch.  The  fair  youthful  face  lit  up  by 
the  setting  sun,  with  its  intelligent  eyes,  looked  so  healthy 
and  calm  that  at  first  sight  the  thought  of  illness  did  not 
present  itself. 

"You!  "  he  exclaimed.    "You  here?  " 

He  looked  younger  than  ever  with  this  joyful  surprise  on 
his  face,  but  neither  the  body,  nor  the  arms  which  were 
covered,  moved  in  the  least,  and  Clerambault  coming  nearer 
saw  that  the  head  alone  seemed  to  be  alive. 

"  Mamma,  you  have  been  giving  me  away,"  said  Edme 
Froment. 

"  Did  you  not  want  to  see  me?  "  said  Clerambault,  bend- 
ing over  him. 

"  That  is  not  just  what  I  meant,  but  I  am  not  very 
anxious  to  be  seen." 

"  Why  not?  I  should  like  to  know,"  said  Clerambault, 
in  a  tone  which  he  tried  to  make  gay. 

"  Because  a  man  does  not  ask  visitors  to  the  house  when 
he  is  not  there  himself." 

"  Where  are  you?  "  if  one  may  ask. 

"  I  could  almost  swear  that  I  was  shut  up  in  an  old 
Egyptian  mummy  " — ^he  glanced  at  the  bed  and  his  im- 
movable body: 

"  There  is  no  life  left  in  it,"  he  said. 

"  You  have  more  life  than  any  of  us,"  said  a  voice  beside 
them.  Clerambault  looked  up  and  saw  on  the  other  side 
of  the  couch  a  tall  young  man  full  of  health  and  strength, 
who  seemed  to  be  about  the  same  age  as  Edme,  who 
smiled  and  said  to  Clerambault:  "  My  friend  Chastenay 
has  enough  vitality  to  lend  me  some  and  to  spare." 
...  244 


CLERAMBAULT  245 

"  If  that  were  only  literally  true,"  said  the  other,  and  the 
two  friends  exchanged  an  affectionate  glance.  Chastenay 
continued: 

"  I  should  in  that  case  only  be  giving  back  a  part  of 
what  I  owe  you."  Then  turning  to  Clerambault,  he  added: 
"  He  is  the  one  who  keeps  us  all  up,  is  it  not  so,  Madame 
Fanny?  " 

"  Indeed  yes,  I  could  not  do  without  my  strong  son," 
said  the  mother  tenderly. 

"  They  take  advantage  of  the  fact  that  I  cannot  defend 
myself,"  said  Edme  to  Clerambault.  "  You  see  I  cannot 
stir  an  inch." 

"  Was  it  a  wound?  " 

"  Paralysis." — Clerambault  did  not  dare  to  ask  for  de- 
tails, but  after  a  pause:  "  Do  you  suffer  much?  "  he  in- 
quired. 

"  I  ought  to  wish  that  it  were  so  perhaps ;  for  pain  is 
a  tie  between  us  and  the  shore.  However,  I  confess  that  I 
prefer  the  silence  of  this  body  in  which  I  am  encased  ... 
let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  .  .  .  My  mind  at  least  is 
free.  And  if  it  is  not  true  that  it  ' agitat  molem*  it  does 
often  escape." 

"  I  know,"  said  Clerambault,  "  it  came  to  see  me  the 
other  day." 

"  Not  for  the  first  time;  it  has  been  there  before." 

"And  I  who  thought  myself  deserted!  " 

"  Do  you  recall,"  said  Edme,  "  the  words  of  Randolph 
to  Cecil? — *  The  voice  of  a  man  alone  can  in  one  hour  put 
more  life  into  us  than  the  clang  of  five  hundred  trumpets 
sounded  continuously.' " 

"  That  always  reminds  me  of  you,"  said  Chastenay,  but 
Edm6  went  on  as  if  he  had  not  heard  him:  ..."  You 
have  waked  us  all  up." 

Clerambault  looked  at  the  brave  calm  eyes  of  the 
paralytic,  and  said: 


246  CLERAMBAULT 

"  Your  eyes  do  Jiot  look  as  if  they  needed  to  be  waked." 

"  They  do  not  need  it  now,"  said  Edme,  "  the  farther  off 
one  is,  the  better  one  sees;  but  when  I  was  close  to  every- 
thing I  saw  very  little." 

"  Tell  me  what  you  see  now." 

"  It  is  getting  late,"  said  Edme,  "  and  I  am  rather  tired. 
Will  you  come  another  time?  " 

"  Tomorrow,  if  you  will  let  me." 

As  Clerambault  went  out  Chastenay  joined  him.  He 
felt  the  need  of  confiding  to  a  heart  that  could  feel  the  pain 
and  grandeur  of  the  tragedy  of  which  his  friend  had  been 
at  once  the  hero  and  the  victim.  Edme  Froment  had  been 
struck  on  the  spinal  column  by  an  exploding  shell.  Young 
as  he  was,  he  was  one  of  the  intellectual  leaders  of  his  gen- 
eration, handsome,  ardent,  eloquent,  overflowing  with  life 
and  visions,  loving  and  beloved,  nobly  ambitious,  and  all 
at  once,  at  a  blow, — a  living  death!  His  mother  who  had 
centred  all  her  pride  and  love  on  him  now  saw  him  con- 
demned for  the  rest  of  his  days  to  this  terrible  fate.  They 
had  both  suffered  terribly,  but  each  hid  it  from  the  other, 
and  this  effort  kept  them  up.  They  took  great  pride  in 
each  other.  She  had  all  the  care  of  him,  washed  and  fed 
him  like  a  little  child,  and  he  kept  calm  for  her  sake,  and 
sustained  her  on  the  wings  of  his  spirit. 

"  Ah,"  said  Chastenay,  "  it  makes  one  feel  ashamed — 
when  I  think  that  I  am  alive  and  well,  that  I  can  reach 
out  my  arms  to  life,  that  I  can  run  and  leap,  and  draw 
this  blessed  air  into  my  lungs.  .  .  ."  As  he  spoke  he 
stretched  out  his  arms,  raised  his  head,  and  breathed 
deeply. 

"  I  ought  to  feel  remorseful,"  he  added,  lowering  his 
voice,  "  and  the  worst  is  that  I  do  not."  Clerambault  could 
not  help  smiling. 

"  It  is  not  very  heroic,"  continued  Chastenay,  "  and  yet 
1  care  more  for  Froment  than  for  anyone  on  earth,  and  his 


CLERAMBAULT  347 

fate  makes  me  wretchedly  unhappy.  But  all  the  same, 
when  I  think  of  my  luck  to  be  here  at  this  moment  when 
so  many  are  gone,  and  to  be  well  and  sound,  I  can  hardly 
keep  from  showing  how  glad  I  am.  It  is  so  good  to  live 
and  be  whole.  Poor  Edme!  .  .  .  You  must  think  me  ter- 
ribly selfish?  " 

"  No,  what  you  say  is  perfectly  natural  and  healthy.  If 
we  were  all  as  sincere  as  you,  humanity  would  not  be  the 
victim  of  the  wicked  notion  of  glory  in  suffering.  You 
have  every  right  to  enjoy  life  after  the  trials  you  have 
passed  through,"  and  as  he  spoke  he  touched  the  Croix  de 
Guerre  which  the  young  man  wore  on  his  breast. 

"  I  have  been  through  them  and  I  am  going  back,"  said 
Chastenay,  "  but  there  is  no  merit  in  that ;  there  is  nothing 
else  that  I  can  do.  I  am  not  trying  to  deceive  you  and 
pretend  that  I  love  to  smell  powder;  you  cannot  go  through 
three  years  of  war,  and  still  want  to  run  risks  and  be  indif- 
ferent to  danger,  even  if  you  did  feel  like  that  in  the  be- 
ginning. I  was  so — I  may  frankly  say  I  did  go  in  for 
heroism;  but  I  have  lost  all  that,  it  was  really  part  igno- 
rance and  part  rhetoric,  and  when  one  is  rid  of  these,  the 
nonsense  of  the  war,  the  idiotic  slaughter,  the  ugliness,  the 
horrible  useless  sacrifice  must  be  clear  to  the  narrowest 
mind.  If  it  is  not  manly  to  fly  from  the  inevitable,  it  is 
not  necessary  either  to  go  in  search  of  what  can  be  avoided. 
The  great  Corneille  was  a  hero  behind  the  lines;  those  whom 
I  have  known  at  the  front  were  almost  heroes  in  spite 
of  themselves." 

"  That  is  the  true  heroism,"  said  Clerambault. 

"  That  is  Froment's  kind,"  said  Chastenay.  "  He  is  a 
hero  because  there  is  nothing  else  that  he  can  be,  not  even 
a  man;  but  the  dearest  thing  about  him  is,  that  in  spite 
of  everything,  he  is  a  real  man." 


The  truth  of  this  remark  was  abundantly  evident  to 
Clerambault  in  a  long  conversation  that  he  had  with 
Froment  the  next  day.  If  the  courage  of  the  young  man 
did  not  desert  him  in  the  ruin  of  his  life,  it  was  all  the 
more  to  his  credit,  as  he  had  never  professed  to  be  an 
apostle  of  self-abnegation.  He  had  had  great  hopes  and 
robust  ambitions,  fully  justified  by  his  talents  and  vigorous 
youth,  but  unlike  his  friend  Chastenay,  he  had  never  for 
a  moment  cherished  any  illusions  as  to  the  war. 

The  disastrous  folly  of  it  had  been  clear  to  him  at  once, 
and  this  he  owed  not  only  to  his  own  penetrating  mind, 
but  to  that  inspiring  angel  who,  from  his  earliest  infancy, 
had  woven  the  soul  of  her  son  from  her  own  pure  spirit. 

Whenever  Clerambault  went  to  see  Edme,  Madame 
Froment  was  almost  always  there;  but  she  kept  in  the  back- 
ground, sitting  at  the  window  with  her  work,  only  stopping 
occasionally  to  throw  a  tender  glance  at  her  son.  She  was 
not  a  woman  of  exceptional  cleverness,  but  she  had  what 
may  be  called  the  intelligence  of  the  heart,  and  her  mind 
had  been  cultivated  by  the  influence  of  her  husband — a 
distinguished  physician  much  older  than  herself.  Thus  it 
had  happened  that  her  whole  life  had  been  filled  by  these 
two  profound  feelings,  an  almost  filial  love  for  her  hus- 
band and  a  more  passionate  sentiment  for  her  son. 

Dr.  Froment,  a  cultivated  man  with  much  originality  of 
mind  which  he  concealed  under  a  grave  courtesy,  as  if  he 
feared  to  wound  others  by  his  distinction,  had  travelled 
all  over  Europe,  as  well  as  in  Egypt,  Persia,  and  India. 
He  had  been  a  student  of  science  and  of  religion,  and  his 
special  interest  had  been  the  new  forms  of  faith  appear- 
ing in  the  world;  such  as  Babism,  Christian  Science,  and 

248 


CLERAMBAULT  249 

theosophical  doctrines.  As  he  had  kept  in  touch  with  the 
pacifist  movement,  and  was  a  friend  of  Baroness  Suttner, 
whom  he  had  known  in  Vienna,  he  had  long  seen  the  catas- 
trophe approaching  which  threatened  him  and  all  he  loved. 
But  man  of  courage  as  he  was,  and  accustomed  to  the 
indifference  of  nature,  he  had  not  tried  to  delude  his  family 
as  to  the  future,  but  had  rather  sought  to  strengthen  their 
souls  to  meet  the  danger  that  hung  over  their  heads. 

More  than  all  his  words,  his  example  was  sacred  to  his 
wife,  for  the  son  had  been  yet  a  child  at  the  time  of  his 
father's  death.  Dr.  Froment  had  suffered  from  a  cancer 
of  the  intestines,  and  during  the  whole  course  of  the  slow 
and  painful  disease  he  had  followed  his  ordinary  occupa- 
tions up  to  the  last  minute,  sustaining  the  courage  of  his 
loved  ones  by  this  serene  fortitude. 

This  noble  picture  which  dwelt  in  Madame  Froment's 
heart,  and  which  she  worshipped  in  secret,  was  to  her  what 
religion  is  to  other  women.  To  this,  though  she  had  no 
clear  belief  in  the  future  life,  she  prayed,  especially  in  dif- 
ficult moments,  as  if  to  an  ever-present  helpful  friend.  And 
by  a  singular  phenomenon  sometimes  observed  after  death, 
the  essence  of  her  husband's  soul  seemed  to  have  passed 
into  hers.  For  this  reason  her  son  had  grown  up  in  an 
atmosphere  of  placid  thought,  while  most  of  the  young 
generation  before  1914  were  feverish,  restless,  aggressive, 
irritated  by  delay.  When  the  war  broke  out,  there  was  no 
need  for  Madame  Froment  to  protect  herself  or  her  son 
against  the  national  excesses;  they  were  both  strangers  to 
such  ideas;  but  they  made  no  attempt  to  resist  the  in- 
evitable; they  had  watched  the  coming  of  this  misfortune 
for  so  long!  All  that  they  could  do  now  was  to  bear  it 
bravely,  while  trying  to  preserve  what  was  the  most  precious 
thing  to  them ;  their  souls'  faith.  Madame  Froment  did  not 
consider  it  necessary  to  be  "  Au^dessus  de  la  inHce "  in 
order  to  lead  it;  and  she  accomplished  in  her  limited  sphere 


250  CLERAMBAULT 

simply,  but  more  efficaciously,  what  was  attempted  by 
writers  in  Germany  and  England, — a  form  of  international 
reconciliation.  She  had  kept  in  touch  with  many  old 
friends,  and  without  being  troubled  in  circles  infected  by 
the  war-spirit,  or  ever  undertaking  useless  demonstrations 
against  the  war,  she  was  a  check  on  insane  manifestations 
of  hatred,  by  her  simple  presence,  her  quiet  words  and 
manner,  her  good  judgment,  and  the  respect  inspired  by  her 
kindness.  In  families  that  were  sympathetic  she  distributed 
messages  from  liberal  Europeans,  among  others,  Cleram- 
bault's  articles,  though  without  his  knowledge.  It  was  a 
source  of  satisfaction  when  she  saw  that  their  hearts  were 
touched.  A  greater  joy  still  was  to  see  that  her  son  himself 
was  transformed. 

Edme  Froment  was  not  in  the  least  a  Tolstoy  an  pacifist. 
At  first  he  thought  the  war  more  a  folly  than  a  crime,  and 
if  he  had  been  free,  he  would  have  withdrawn,  like  Per- 
rotin,  into  high  dilettantism  of  art  and  thought,  without 
attempting  the  hopeless  task  of  fighting  the  prevailing 
opinion,  for  which  he  then  felt  more  contempt  than  pity. 
Since  his  forced  participation  in  the  war,  he  had  been 
obliged  to  acknowledge  that  this  folly  was  so  largely  ex- 
piated by  suffering  that  it  would  be  superfluous  to  add  any- 
thing to  it.  Man  had  made  his  own  hell  upon  earth,  and 
there  was  no  need  of  further  condemnation.  He  was  on 
leave,  at  Paris,  when  he  came  across  Clerambault's  articles 
which  showed  him  that  there  was  something  better  for  him 
to  do  than  to  set  himself  up  as  a  judge  of  his  companions 
in  misery;  that  it  would  be  far  nobler  to  try  to  deliver  them 
while  taking  his  share  of  the  common  burden. 

The  young  disciple  was  disposed  to  go  farther  than  his 
master.  Clerambault,  who  was  naturally  affectionate  and 
rather  weak,  found  his  joy  in  communion  with  other  men, 
and  suffered  even  when  divided  in  spirit  from  their  errors. 
He  was  a  confirmed  self-doubter.    He  was  prone  to  look  in 


CLERAMBAULT  251 

the  eyes  of  the  crowd  for  agreement  with  his  ideas.  He 
exhausted  himself  in  futile  efforts  to  reconcile  his  inward 
beliefs  with  the  aspirations  and  the  social  struggles  of  his 
time.  Froment,  who  had  the  soul  of  a  chieftain  in  a  help- 
less body,  dauntlessly  maintained  that  for  him  who  bears 
the  torch  of  a  lofty  ideal  it  is  an  absolute  duty  to  hold  it 
high  over  the  heads  of  his  comrades ;  that  it  would  be  wrong 
to  confuse  it  in  the  other  illuminations.  The  common-place 
of  democracies  that  Voltaire  had  less  wit  than  Mr.  Every- 
body is  nonsense.  .  .  .  *'  Democritus  ait;  Unus  mihi  pro 
populo  est.  .  .  .To  me  an  individual  is  as  good  as  a 
thousand."  .  .  .  Our  modern  faith  sees  in  the  social  group 
the  summit  of  human  evolution,  but  where  is  the  proof? 
Froment  thought  the  greatest  height  was  reached  in  an  in- 
dividual superiority.  Millions  of  men  have  lived  and  died 
to  produce  one  perfect  flower  of  thought,  for  such  are  the 
superb  and  prodigal  ways  of  nature.  She  spends  whole 
peoples  to  make  a  Jesus,  a  Buddha,  an  JEschylus,  a 
Vinci,  a  Newton,  or  a  Beethoven;  but  without  these  men, 
what  would  the  people  have  been?  Or  humanity  itself? 
We  do  not  hold  with  the  egotist  ideal  of  the  Superman.  A 
man  who  is  great  is  great  for  all  his  fellows;  his  indi- 
viduality expresses  and  often  guides  millions  of  others;  it  is 
the  incarnation  of  their  secret  forces,  of  their  highest  de- 
sires; it  concentrates  and  realises  them.  The  sole  fact  that 
a  man  was  Christ,  has  exalted  and  lifted  generations  of 
humanity,  filling  them  with  the  divine  energy;  and  though 
nineteen  centuries  have  since  passed,  millions  have  not 
ceased  to  aspire  to  the  height  of  this  example,  though  none 
has  attained  to  it. 

Thus  understood,  the  ideal  individualist  is  more  produc- 
tive for  human  society  than  the  ideal  communist,  who  would 
lead  us  to  the  mechanical  perfection  of  the  bee-hive,  and 
at  the  very  least  he  is  indispensable  as  corrective  and  com- 
plement. 


252  CLERAMBAULT 

This  proud  individualism,  stated  by  Froment  with  burn- 
ing eloquence,  was  a  support  to  Clerambault's  mind,  prone 
to  waver,  and  undecided  from  good-nature,  self-distrust,  and 
the  wish  to  understand  others. 

Froment  rendered  Clerambault  another  important  service. 
More  in  the  current  of  world-thought,  and  through  his 
family  coming  in  closer  contact  with  foreign  thinkers,  an 
accomplished  linguist  besides,  Froment  could  bring  to  mind 
those  other  men  in  all  nations  who,  great  in  their  isolation, 
fought  for  the  right  to  a  free  conscience.  It  was  a  con- 
soling spectacle;  all  the  work  under  the  surface  of  thought 
suppressed,  but  struggling  towards  truth,  and  the  knowl- 
edge that  the  worst  tyranny  that  has  crushed  the  soul  of 
humanity  since  the  Inquisition  has  failed  to  stifle  the 
indomitable  will  to  remain  free  and  true. 

No  doubt  these  lofty  individualities  were  rare,  but  their 
power  was  all  the  greater;  the  fine  outline  was  more  strik- 
ing, seen  against  the  dark  horizon.  In  the  fall  of  the 
nations  to  the  foot  of  the  precipice  where  millions  lie  in  a 
shapeless  mass,  their  voices  seemed  to  rise  with  the  only 
human  note,  and  their  action  gained  emphasis  from  the 
anger  with  which  it  was  met.  A  century  ago  Chateaubriand 
wrote: 

"  It  is  vain  to  struggle  longer ;  henceforward  the  only 
important  thing  is"  to  be." 

He  did  not  know  that  "  to  be  "  in  our  time,  be  oneself, 
be  free,  implies  the  greatest  of  combats.  Those  who  are 
true  to  themselves  dominate  through  the  levelling  down 
of  the  rest. 


Clerambault  was  not  the  only  one  to  feel  the  benefit  of 
of  Froment's  energy,  for  at  his  bedside  he  was  sure  to  find 
some  friend  who  came,  perhaps  without  admitting  it,  more 
to  get  comfort  than  to  bring  it.  Two  or  three  of  these 
were  young,  about  Edmg's  age,  the  others,  men  over  fifty, 
old  friends  of  the  family,  or  those  who  had  known  Froment 
before  the  war. 

One  of  these  had  been  his  professor,  an  old  Hellenist, 
with  a  sweet  absent  smile.  Then  there  was  a  grey-haired 
sculptor,  his  face  ploughed  by  deep  tragic  lines;  a  country 
gentleman,  clean-shaved,  red-cheeked,  with  the  massive  head 
of  an  old  peasant;  and  finally  a  doctor.  He  had  a  white 
beard,  his  face  was  worn  and  kind,  and  you  were  struck 
by  the  strange  expression  of  his  eyes;  one  seemed  to  look 
sharply  at  you,  and  the  other  was  sad  and  dreamy. 

There  was  little  resemblance  between  these  men  who 
sometimes  met  at  the  invalid's  house.  All  shades  of 
thought  could  be  found  in  the  group,  from  the  Catholic 
to  the  freethinker  and  the  bolshevist — one  of  Froment's 
young  friends  professed  to  be  of  this  opinion.  In  them  you 
could  find  the  traces  of  the  most  various  intellectual  an- 
cestry; the  ironic  Lucian  appeared  in  the  old  professor;  the 
Count  de  Coulanges  was  wont  to  solace  himself  in  the  eve- 
nings on  his  estate  with  cattle  and  fertiliser,  but  also 
revelled  in  the  gorgeous  texture  of  Froissart's  style,  like 
cloth  of  gold,  and  the  countrified,  juicy  talk  of  that  rascal 
Gondi — the  count  certainly  had  the  old  French  chroniclers 
in  his  veins.  The  sculptor  wrinkled  his  brow  in  the  effort 
to  find  metaphysics  in  Rodin  and  Beethoven;  and  Dr. 
Verrier  had  a  streak  of  the  marvellous  in  his  disposition. 
This  he  satisfied  by  the  hypotheses  of  biology,  and  the  won- 

253 


254  CXERAMBAULT 

ders  of  modern  chemistry,  though  he  would  glance  at  the 
paradise  of  religion  with  the  disenchanted  smile  of  the  man 
of  science.  He  bore  his  part  in  the  sad  trials  of  the  time, 
but  the  era  of  war  with  all  its  gory  glory  faded  for  him 
before  the  heroic  discoveries  of  thought  made  by  a  new 
Newton,  the  German  Einstein,  in  the  midst  of  the  general 
distraction. 

These  men  all  differed  in  the  form  of  their  minds  and 
in  their  temperament;  but  they  all  agreed  in  this,  they 
belonged  to  no  party,  each  thought  for  himself,  and  each 
respected  and  loved  liberty  in  himself  or  in  others.  What 
else  mattered?  In  our  day,  all  the  old  framework  is  broken 
down;  religious,  political,  or  social.  It  is  but  small  prog- 
ress if  we  call  ourselves  socialists,  or  republicans,  rather  than 
monarchists,  if  these  castes  accept  nationalism  of  State, 
faith,  or  class.  There  are  now  only  two  sorts  of  minds: 
those  shut  up  behind  bars,  and  those  open  to  all  that  is 
alive,  to  the  entire  race  of  man,  even  our  enemies.  These 
men,  few  though  they  may  be,  compose  the  true  "  Interna- 
tional "  which  rests  on  the  worship  of  truth  and  universal 
life.  They  know  well  that  they  are  each  too  weak  to 
embrace  alone  their  great  ideal,  but  it  is  infinite  and  can 
embrace  them  all.  United  in  one  object,  they  push  on  by 
their  separate  ways  towards  the  unknown  God. 

These  independent  spirits  were  all  drawn  towards  Edme 
Froment  at  this  time,  because  they  obscurely  saw  in  him  the 
point  where  they  could  meet,  the  clearing  from  which  every 
path  in  the  forest  is  visible.  Froment  had  not  always  tried 
to  bring  others  together;  as  long  as  he  was  well  and  strong, 
he  too  had  taken  his  own  way,  but  since  his  course  had 
been  cut  short,  after  a  time  of  bitter  despondency  of  which 
he  said  nothing,  he  had  placed  himself  at  the  cross-roads. 
As  he  could  not  possibly  act  himself,  he  was  better  able  to 
view  the  whole  field  and  take  part  in  spirit.  He  saw  the 
different  currents:    country,   revolution,  contests   between 


CXERAMBAULT  255 

states  and  classes,  science  and  faith — like  a  stream's  con- 
flicting forces,  with  its  rapids,  whirlpools,  and  reefs;  it  may 
sometimes  slacken,  or  turn  its  course,  but  it  always  flows 
on  irresistibly  (even  reaction  is  carried  forward).  And 
he,  the  poor  youth  staked  at  his  cross-roads,  took  all  these 
currents  unto  him,  the  entire  stream, 

Edme  reminded  Clerambault  sometimes  of  Perrotin,  but 
he  and  Froment  were  worlds  apart.  The  latter  also  denied 
nothing  of  what  is,  and  wished  to  understand  everything; 
but  his  was  a  fiery  spirit,  his  whole  soul  was  filled  with 
ordered  movement  and  feeling;  with  him  all  life  and  death 
went  forward  and  upward.  And  his  body  lay  there  mo- 
tionless. 


It  was  a  dark  hour;  the  turn  of  the  year  191 7-18.  In 
the  foggy  winter  nights  men  waited  for  the  supreme  on- 
slaught of  the  German  armies,  which  rumour  had  foretold 
for  months  past;  the  Gotha  raids  on  Paris  had  already 
begun.  Those  who  wanted  to  fight  to  the  end  pretended 
confidence,  the  papers  kept  on  boasting,  and  Clemenceau 
had  never  slept  better  in  his  life.  But  the  tension  showed 
in  the  increasing  bitterness  of  feeling  among  civilians.  The 
agonised  public  turned  on  the  suspects  among  them,  the 
defeatists  and  the  pacifists,  and  for  days  at  a  time  the 
baying  of  an  accusing  public  pursued  these  miserable  crea- 
tures and  hunted  them  down.  And  spies  swarmed  of  all 
sorts,  patriotic  denouncers,  half-crazed  witnesses.  When 
towards  the  end  of  March  the  long-threatened  great  offen- 
sive against  Paris  began,  the  "  sacred  "  fury  between  fellow- 
citizens  reached  its  height,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  if  the 
invasion  had  succeeded,  before  the  Germans  had  arrived  at 
the  gates  of  the  city,  the  gallows  at  Vincennes,  that  altar 
of  the  country's  vengeance,  would  have  known  many  vic- 
tims, innocent  or  guilty,  accused  or  condemned. 

Clerambault  was  often  shouted  at  in  the  streets,  but  he 
was  not  alarmed;  perhaps  because  he  did  not  realise  the 
danger.  One  day  Lloreau  found  him  in  a  group  of  people 
disputing  with  an  excited  young  man  who  had  spoken  to 
him  in  a  most  insulting  manner.  While  they  were  talking 
the  shell  from  a  "  Big  Bertha  "  exploded  close  by.  Cleram- 
bault took  no  notice,  and  went  on  quietly  explaining  his 
position  to  the  angry  young  man.  There  was  something 
positively  comic  in  this  obstinacy,  and  the  circle  of  listeners 
was  quick  to  feel  it,  like  true  Frenchmen,  and  began  to 
exchange  jokes  not  entirely  of  a  refined  nature,  but  perfectly 

256 


CLERAMBAULT  257 

good-natured.  Moreau  caught  hold  of  Clerambault's  ann 
and  tried  to  drag  him  away,  but  he  stopped,  and  looking 
at  the  laughing  crowd,  the  absurdity  of  the  situation  struck 
him  in  his  turn,  and  he  too  burst  out  laughing. 

"  What  an  old  fool  I  am!  "  said  he  to  Moreau,  who  was 
still  intent  on  getting  him  away. 

"  You  had  better  look  out,  for  you  are  not  the  only  fool 
in  this  town,"  was  the  somewhat  impertinent  answer,  but 
Clerambault  would  not  imderstand  what  he  meant. 

The  case  against  him  had  entered  on  a  new  phase;  he 
was  now  accused  of  infraction  of  the  law  of  the  5th  of 
August,  1914 — "An  act  to  repress  indiscretions  in  time  of 
war."  He  was  accused  of  pacifist  propaganda  among  the 
working  classes,  where  it  was  said  that  Thouron  had  dis- 
tributed Clerambault's  writings  with  the  consent  of  the 
author;  but  there  was  no  foundation  for  this,  as  Thouron 
was  in  a  position  to  testify  that  Clerambault  had  no 
knowledge  of  such  propaganda,  and  had  certainly  not  au- 
thorised it. 

It  appeared,  however,  singularly  enough,  that  Thouron 
would  not  swear  to  anything  of  the  sort.  His  attitude  was 
strange,  for,  instead  of  stating  the  facts,  he  equivocated  as 
if  he  had  something  to  hide;  it  almost  looked  as  if  he 
wished  this  to  be  noticed,  which  would  have  aroused  sus- 
picions if  he  had  not  been  so  careful.  Unfortunately  these 
suspicions  seemed  to  glance  at  Clerambault,  though  he  said 
nothing  against  him  or  against  anyone;  in  fact  he  refused 
to  tell  anything,  but  he  let  it  be  understood  that  if  he 
chose  .  .  .  but  he  did  not  choose.  Clerambault  was  con- 
fronted with  him,  and  his  attitude  was  perfect,  really 
chivalrous.  He  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart  and  declared  that 
he  had  the  admiration  of  a  son  for  the  great  "  Master," 
and  "  Friend,"  and  when  Clerambault,  getting  impatient, 
begged  him  to  state  simply  just  what  had  passed  between 
them,  the  other  would  do  nothing  but  protest  his  "  undying 


258  CLERAMBAULT 

devotion."  He  would  rather  say  nothing  more;  he  had 
nothing  to  add  to  his  testimony;  it  was  all  his  fault. 

He  left  with  an  increased  reputation,  while  Clerambault 
was  supposed  to  have  sheltered  himself  behind  his  devoted 
henchman.  The  press  unhesitatingly  accused  Clerambault 
of  cowardice,  and  meanwhile  the  case  dragged  on,  Cleram- 
bault appearing  every  day  to  answer  useless  questions,  with 
no  decision  in  sight.  It  might  have  been  supposed  that  a 
man  accused  without  proofs,  and  subject  for  so  long  to 
injurious  suspicions,  would  have  been  entitled  to  the  sym- 
pathy of  the  public ;  but  on  the  contrary  everyone  was  more 
down  on  him  than  before ;  they  blamed  him  because  he  was 
not  already  convicted.  All  sorts  of  absurd  stories  were  in 
circulation  about  him;  it  was  asserted  that  experts  had  dis- 
covered through  the  shape  of  some  letters  misprinted  in  a 
pamphlet  of  Clerambault's  that  it  had  come  from  a  German 
press,  and  this  humbug  was  readily  swallowed  by  men  who 
were  supposed  to  be  intelligent,  before  the  war, — only  four 
years  ago,  but  it  seemed  centuries. 

So  all  these  worthy  folks  passed  sentence  on  a  fellow- 
citizen  on  the  slightest  information ;  it  was  not  the  j&rst  time, 
and  it  will  not  be  the  last.  The  best  opinion  was  indignant 
that  he  should  still  be  at  liberty,  and  reactionary  papers, 
fearing  that  their  prey  would  escape,  tried  to  intimidate 
justice  by  loud  accusations,  and  demanded  that  the  case 
should  be  removed  from  the  civil  court  and  brought  before 
a  court-martial.  This  excitement  soon  developed  into  one 
of  those  paroxysms  which  in  Paris  are  generally  brief  but 
violent;  for  this  sensible  people  does  go  crazy  periodically. 
It  may  be  asked  why  men  who  are  kind  for  the  most  part, 
and  naturally  given  to  mutual  tolerance,  not  to  say  indif- 
ference, should  have  these  explosions  of  furious  fanaticism, 
when  they  seem  to  lose  all  feeling  as  well  as  common-sense. 
Some  will  tell  you  that  this  people  is  feminine  in  its  virtues, 
as  well  as  in  its  vices,  that  ihe  delicate  nerves  and  fine  sen- 


CLERAMBAULT  i259 

sibility  which  cause  it  to  excel  in  matters  of  taste  and  art 
also  make  it  susceptible  to  attacks  of  hysteria,  but  I  am  of 
opinion  that  any  people  is  manly  only  by  accident,  if  by 
a  man  you  mean  a  reasonable  creature — a  flattering  but 
baseless  idea.  Men  only  use  their  reason  from  time  to 
time,  and  are  soon  worn  out  by  the  effort  of  thinking;  so 
those  do  them  a  favour  who  act  for  them,  encouraging  them 
in  the  direction  of  the  least  effort,  and  not  much  is  re- 
quired to  hate  a  new  idea.  Do  not  condemn  them;  the 
Friend  of  all  who  are  persecuted  has  said  with  His  heroic 
indulgence:  "  They  know  not  what  they  do." 

An  active  nationalist  newspaper  was  eager  in  stirring  up 
the  evil  instincts  that  lay  below  the  surface.  It  Uved  on 
the  exploitation  of  hatred  and  suspicion,  which  it  called 
"  working  for  the  regeneration  of  France," — France  being 
reduced  to  this  paper  and  its  friends.  It  published 
"  Cleramboche,"  a  collection  of  sanguinary  articles,  like 
those  which  succeeded  so  well  against  Jaures;  it  roused 
people  by  declaring  that  the  traitor  owed  his  safety  to 
occult  influences,  and  that  he  would  make  his  escape,  if  he 
were  not  carefully  watched;  and  finally  it  appealed  to 
popular  justice. 


Victor  Vaucoux  hated  Clerambault ;  not  that  he  knew 
him  at  all;  it  is  not  necessary  to  know  a  man  in  order  to 
hate  him;  but  if  he  had  known  him  he  would  have  detested 
him  still  more.  He  was  his  born  enemy  before  he  even 
knew  that  Qerambault  existed.  There  are  races  among 
minds  more  antagonistic  to  each  other,  in  all  countries, 
than  those  divided  by  a  different  skin  or  uniform. 

He  was  a  well-to-do  bourgeois  from  the  west  of  France 
and  belonged  to  a  family  of  former  servants  of  the  Empire 
who  had  been  sulking  for  the  last  forty  years  in  a  sterile 
opposition.  He  had  a  small  property  in  the  Charente, 
where  he  spent  the  summer,  and  passed  the  rest  of  the 
time  in  Paris.  Having  instincts  for  government  which  he 
could  not  satisfy,  he  laid  the  blame  for  this  on  his  family 
and  on  life,  and  thus  thwarted,  his  character  had  grown 
tyrannical  so  that  he  acted  the  despot  unconsciously  to 
those  nearest  to  him,  as  a  right  and  duty  that  could  not  be 
disputed.  The  word  tolerance  had  no  meaning  for  him ;  for 
he  could  not  make  a  mistake.  Nevertheless  he  possessed 
inteUigence,  and  moral  vigour;  he  even  had  a  heart,  but  all 
wrapped  about  and  knotted  like  an  old  tree-trunk  till  such 
forces  of  expansion  as  he  had  within  him  were  stunted.  He 
could  absorb  nothing  from  the  outside;  when  he  read  or 
travelled  he  saw  everything  with  hostile  eyes,  his  one  wish 
was  to  go  home;  and  as  the  bark  was  too  thick  to  be 
penetrated,  all  his  sap  came  from  the  foot  of  the  tree — 
from  the  dead. 

He  was  the  type  of  that  portion  of  the  race  which,  stub- 
born but  outworn,  has  not  life  enough  to  spread  itself 
abroad,  and  shrinks  into  a  sentiment  of  aggressive  self- 
defence.    This  looks  with  suspicion  and  antipathy  on  the 

260 


CLERAMBAULT  261 

young  forces  which  overflow  around  it,  at  home  and  abroad ; 
growing  nations  and  classes,  all  the  passionate  awkward 
attempts  at  social  and  moral  improvement.  Like  poor 
Barres,  and  his  dwarfed  hero,*  such  people  want  walls  and 
barriers,  frontiers,  and  enemies.  In  this  state  of  siege 
Vaucoux  lived,  and  his  family  was  forced  to  live  in  the 
same  way.  His  wife  who  was  a  sweet,  sad,  effaced  kind 
of  person,  found  the  only  method  of  escape — and  died. 
Left  alone  with  his  grief — of  which  he  made  a  kind  of 
rampart,  as  of  everything  about  him — having  only  one  son 
thirteen  years  of  age,  he  had  mounted  guard  before  his 
youth  and  brought  him  up  to  do  the  same;  strange  that 
a  man  should  bring  a  son  into  the  world  to  fight  against 
the  future!  Perhaps  the  boy,  if  let  alone,  would  have  found 
out  life  by  instinct,  but  in  the  father's  shut-up  house,  a 
sort  of  jail,  he  was  his  father's  prey.  They  had  few  friends, 
few  books,  few,  or  rather  one,  newspaper  whose  petrified 
principles  corresponded  to  Vaucoux'  need  for  conservation, 
in  the  corpse-like  meaning  of  the  word.  As  his  son,  or  his 
victim,  could  not  get  away  from  him,  he  inoculated  him 
with  all  his  own  mental  diseases;  like  those  insects  which 
deposit  their  eggs  in  the  living  bodies  of  others.  And  when 
the  war  broke  out,  he  took  him  at  once  to  a  recruiting 
station  and  made  him  enlist.  For  a  man  of  his  sort, 
"  Country  "  was  the  noblest  of  things — the  holy  of  holies ; 
he  did  not  need  to  breathe  the  thrilling  suggestion  of  the 
crowd,  his  head  was  already  turned,  and,  besides,  he  never 


* "  Simon  and  I  then  understood  our  hatred  of  strangers  and 
barbarians,  and  our  egotism,  in  which  we  included  ourselves  and 
our  entire  small  moral  family. — The  first  care  of  him  who  would 
wish  to  live  must  be  to  surround  himself  with  high  walls;  but 
even  in  his  closed  garden  he  must  introduce  only  those  who  are 
guided  by  the  same  feelings,  and  interests  analogous  to  his 
own."    "  A  Free  Man." 

In  three  lines,  three  times,  this  "  free  man  "  expresses  the  idea 
of  "  shutting-up,"  "  closing,"  and  "  surrounding  with  walls." 


262  CLERAMBAULT 

went  with  the  crowds;  he  carried  "Country"  about  with 
him;— The  Country  and  The  Past,— The  Eternally  Past. 

His  son  was  killed,  like  Clerambault's  son,  and  the  sons 
of  millions  of  other  fathers,  for  the  faith  and  the  ideals  of 
those  fathers  in  which  they  did  not  believe. 

Vaucoux  had  none  of  Clerambault's  doubts;  he  did  not 
know  the  meaning  of  the  word,  and  if  he  could  have  per- 
mitted himself  such  a  feeling  he  would  have  despised  the 
idea.  Hard  man  as  he  was,  he  had  loved  his  son  passion- 
ately, though  he  had  never  shown  it;  and  he  could  think 
of  no  better  way  to  prove  it  now  than  by  a  ferocious 
hatred  for  those  who  had  killed  him;  not,  of  course,  reck- 
oning himself  among  the  number. 

There  were  not  many  methods  of  revenge  open  to  a  man 
of  his  age,  rheumatic  and  stiff  in  one  arm;  but  he  tried  to 
enlist  and  was  rejected.  He  felt  that  something  must  be 
done,  and  all  that  he  had  left  was  his  brain.  Alone  in  his 
deserted  house  with  the  memory  of  his  dead  wife  and  child, 
he  sat  for  hours  brooding  on  these  vindictive  thoughts;  and 
like  a  beast  shaking  the  bars  of  its  cage,  waiting  for  the 
chance  to  spring,  his  mind  raged  furiously  against  the  in- 
hibitions the  war  put  upon  him  with  its  iron  circle  of  the 
trenches. 

The  clamours  of  the  press  drew  his  attention  to  Cler- 
ambault's articles  which  were  intensely  distasteful  to  him. 
The  idea  of  snatching  his  precious  hatred  away  from  be- 
tween his  teeth!  From  the  slight  acquaintance  that  he 
had  with  Clerambault  before  the  war,  he  felt  an  antipathy 
for  him;  as  a  writer,  on  account  of  the  new  form  of  his 
art,  and  as  a  man  for  numerous  reasons:  his  love  of  life, 
and  other  men,  his  democratic  ideals,  his  rather  silly  opti- 
mism, and  his  European  aspirations.  At  the  very  first 
glance,  with  the  instinct  of  a  rheumatic  in  mind  and  body, 
Vaucoux  had  classed  Clerambault  as  one  of  those  pestilent 
persons  who  open  doors  and  windows  and  make  a  draught 


CLERAMBAULT  263 

in  that  closed  house,  his  Country.  That  is,  as  he  imder- 
stood  the  term,  in  his  mind  there  could  be  no  other.  After 
this  there  was  no  need  for  the  vociferations  of  the  papers; 
in  the  author  of  "  The  Appeal  to  the  Living,"  and  the 
"  Pardon  from  the  Dead,"  he  saw  at  once  an  agent  of  the 
enemy,  and  with  his  thirst  for  revenge,  he  knew  the 
opportunity  had  come. 


Nothing  can  be  more  convenient  than  to  detest  those 
who  differ  from  you,  especially  when  you  do  not  under- 
stand them ;  but  poor  Clerambault  had  not  this  resource,  for 
he  did  understand  perfectly.  These  good  people  had  had 
to  bear  injuries  from  the  enemy;  of  course  because  they 
were  struck  by  them,  but  also  frankly,  because  of  Injustice 
with  a  capital  I;  for  in  their  short-sightedness  it  filled  the 
field  of  vision.  The  capacity  to  feel  and  judge  is  very 
limited  in  an  ordinary  man;  submerged  as  he  is  in  the 
species,  he  clings  to  any  driftwood;  and  just  as  he  reduces 
the  infinite  number  of  shades  in  the  river  of  light  to  a  few 
colours,  the  good  and  evil  that  flow  in  the  veins  of  li^ 
world  are  only  perceptible  to  him  when  he  has  bottled 
a  few  samples,  chosen  among  those  around  him.  All  good 
and  bad  then  he  has  in  his  flask,  and  on  these  he  can 
expend  his  whole  power  of  liking  or  repulsion;  witness  the 
fact  that  to  millions  of  excellent  people  the  condemnation 
of  Dreyfus,  or  the  sinking  of  the  "  Lusitania,"  remains  the 
crime  of  the  century.  They  cannot  see  that  the  path  of 
social  life  is  paved  with  crime,  and  that  they  walk  over 
it  in  perfect  unconsciousness,  profiting  by  injustices  that 
they  make  no  effort  to  prevent.  Of  all  these,  which  are 
the  worst?  Those  which  rouse  long  echoes  in  the  conscience 
of  mankind,  or  those  which  are  known  alone  to  the  stifled 
victim?  Naturally,  our  worthy  friends  have  not  arms  long 
enough  to  embrace  all  the  misery  of  the  world;  they  can 
only  reach  one  perhaps,  but  that  they  press  close  to  their 
heart;  and  when  they  have  chosen  a  crime,  they  pour  out 
upon  it  all  the  pent-up  hatred  within  them; — when  a  dog 
has  a  bone  to  gnaw,  it  is  wiser  not  to  touch  him. 

Clerambault  had  tried  to  take  his  bone  away  from  the 

264 


CLERAMBAULT  265 

dog,  and  if  he  was  bitten  he  had  no  right  to  complain;  in 
point  of  fact  he  did  not  do  so.  Men  are  in  the  right  to 
fight  injustice  wherever  they  see  it;  perhaps  it  is  not  their 
fault  if  they  often  see  no  more  than  its  big  toe,  like  Gul- 
liver's at  Brobdignag.  Well,  we  must  each  do  what  we 
can;  and  these  people  could  bite. 


It  was  Good  Friday,  and  the  rising  tide  of  invasion 
swept  up  towards  the  He  de  France.  Even  this  day  of 
sacred  sorrow  had  not  stopped  the  massacre,  for  the  lay 
war  knows  nothing  of  the  Truce  of  God.  Christ  had  been 
bombarded  in  one  of  His  churches,  and  the  news  of  the 
murderous  explosion  at  St.  Gervais  that  afternoon  spread 
at  nightfall  through  the  darkened  city,  wrapped  in  its  grief, 
its  rage,  and  its  fear. 

The  sad  little  group  of  friends  had  gathered  at  Froment's 
house;  each  one  had  come  hoping  to  meet  the  others,  with- 
out previous  appointment.  They  could  see  nothing  but 
violence  all  about  them;  in  the  present  as  well  as  in  the 
future,  in  the  enemy's  camp,  in  their  own,  on  the  side  of 
revolutionists,  and  reactionaries  as  well.  Their  agony  and 
their  doubts  met  in  one  thought.    The  sculptor  was  saying: 

"  Our  holiest  convictions,  oiu-  faith  in  peace  and  human 
brotherhood  rest  in  vain  on  reason  and  love;  is  there  any 
hope  then  that  they  can  conquer  men?    We  are  too  weak." 

Clerambault,  half-unconsciously,  as  the  words  of  Isaiah 
came  to  his  mind,  uttered  them  aloud: 

"  Darkness  covers  the  earth, 
And  the  cloud  envelops  the  people.  .  .  ." 

He  stopped,  but  from  the  faintly-lighted  bed  came  Fro- 
ment's  voice,  continuing: 

"Rise,   for  on  the  tops  of   the  mountains 
The  light   shineth   forth.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  the  light  will  dawn,"  said  Madame  Froment ;  she 
was  sitting  on  the  foot  of  the  bed  in  the  dark  near  Cleram- 
bault; he  leaned  forward  and  took  her  hand.  It  was  as 
if  a  thrill  widened  through  the  room,  like  a  ripple  over  water. 

266 


CLERAMBAULT  267 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?  "  asked  the  Count  de  Coulanges. 

"  Because  I  see  Him  plainly." 

"  I  can  see  Him  too,"  said  Clerambault. 

"  Him?  Whom  do  you  mean?  "  asked  Doctor  Verrier. 
But  before  the  answer  could  come,  they  all  knew  the  word 
that  would  be  said: 

"He  who  bears  the  light,  the  God  who  will  con- 
quer. ..." 

"  Are  you  waiting  for  a  God?  "  said  the  old  professor. 
"  Do  you  believe  in  miracles?  " 

"  We  are  the  miracle,  for  is  it  not  one  that  in  this  world 
of  perpetual  violence  we  have  kept  a  constant  faith  in  the 
love  and  the  union  of  men?  " 

"  Christ  is  expected  for  centuries,"  said  Coulanges  bit- 
terly, "  and  when  He  comes,  He  is  neglected,  crucified,  and 
then  forgotten  except  by  a  handful  of  poor  ignorant 
wretches,  good  if  you  like,  but  narrow.  The  handful  grows 
larger,  and  for  the  space  of  a  man's  life,  faith  is  in  flower, 
but  afterwards  it  is  spoiled  and  betrayed  by  success,  by 
ambitious  disciples,  by  the  Church;  and  so  on  for  cen- 
turies .  .  .  Adventat  regnum  tuum  .  .  .  Where  is  the 
kingdom  of  God?  " 

"  Within  us,"  said  Clerambault,  "  our  trials  and  our 
hopes  all  go  to  form  the  eternal  Christ.  It  ought  to  make 
us  happy  to  think  of  the  privilege  that  has  been  bestowed 
on  us,  to  shelter  in  our  hearts  the  new  God  like  the  Babe 
in  the  manger." 

*'  And  what  proof  have  we  of  His  coming?  "  said  the 
doctor. 

"  Our  existence,"  said  Clerambault. 

"  Our  sufferings,"  said  Froment. 

"  Our  misunderstood  faith,"  said  the  sculptor. 

"  The  fact  alone  that  we  are,"  went  on  Clerambault. 
"  We  are  a  living  paradox  thrown  in  the  face  of  nature 
which  denies  it.    A  hundred  times  must  the  flame  be  kindled 


26g  CLERAMBAULT 

and  go  out  before  it  burns  steadily.  Every  Christ,  every 
God  is  tried  in  advance  through  a  series  of  forerunners; 
they  are  ever3rwhere,  lost  in  space,  lost  in  the  ages;  but 
though  widely-separated,  all  of  these  lonely  souls  see  the 
same  luminous  point  on  the  horizon — the  glance  of  the 
Saviour — ^who  is  coming." 
"He  is  already  come,"  said  Froment. 

When  they  separated,  with  a  deep  mutual  feeling,  but 
in  silence, — for  they  feared  to  break  the  religious  charm 
which  held  them, — each  found  himself  alone  in  the  dark 
street,  but  in  each  was  the  memory  of  a  vision  which  they 
could  hardly  imderstand.  The  curtain  had  fallen;  but  they 
could  never  forget  that  they  had  seen  it  rise. 


A  FEW  days  after,  Clerambault,  who  had  been  again  sum- 
moned before  the  magistrate,  came  home  splashed  with  mud 
from  head  to  foot.  His  hat  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  was 
a  mere  rag,  and  his  hair  was  soaking.  The  woman,  who 
opened  the  door,  exclaimed  at  the  sight  of  him,  but  he 
signed  to  her  to  keep  still,  and  went  into  his  room.  Rosine 
was  away,  so  the  husband  and  wife  were  alone  in  the  flat, 
where  they  only  met  at  meals,  saying  as  little  to  each  other 
as  possible.  However,  hearing  the  exclamation  of  the 
servant,  Madame  Clerambault  feared  some  new  misfortune 
and  went  to  look  for  her  husband.  She  too  cried  out  when 
she  saw  him: 

"  Good  Lord!  what  have  you  been  doing  now?  " 

"I  slipped  and  fell,"  said  he,  trying  to  wipe  off  the 
traces  of  the  accident. 

"You  fell? — turn  round.  What  a  state  you  are  in  I  .  .  . 
One  can't  have  a  moment's  peace  when  you  are  around. 
.  .  .  You  never  look  where  you  are  going.  There  is  mud 
up  to  your  eyelids  ...  all  over  your  facel  " 

"Yes,  I  must  have  struck  myself  there.  ..." 

"What  unlucky  people  we  are  1  .  .  .  you  'think'  that 
you  struck  your  cheek?  .  .  .  you  tripped  and  fell?  .  .  ." 
And  looking  him  in  the  face,  she  cried: 

"  It  isn't  true!    .    .    . 

"  I  did  fall,  I  assure  you.  .   .    .  '* 

"  No,  I  know  it  is  not  true  .  .  .  tell  me,  .  .  .  some- 
one struck  you  .  .  .  ?  "  He  did  not  answer.  "  They 
struck  you,  the  brutes.  My  poor  husband,  to  think  that 
anyone  should  strike  you!  .  .  .  And  you  so  good,  who 
never  did  harm  to  anyone  in  your  life!     How  can  people 

269 


270  CLERAMBAULT 

be  so  wicked?  "  and  she  burst  into  tears  as  she  threw  her 
arms  around  him. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  said  he,  much  touched.  "  It  is  not 
worth  all  these  tears.  See,  you  are  getting  all  muddy,  you 
ought  not  to  touch  me." 

"  That  does  not  matter,"  said  she.  "  I  have  more  spots 
than  that  on  my  conscience.    Forgive  me!  " 

"  Forgive  you  for  what?    Why  do  you  say  such  things?  " 

"  Because  I  have  been  wicked  to  you  myself;  I  haven't 
understood  you — (I  don't  think  I  ever  shall) — but  I  do 
know  that  whatever  you  do,  you  only  mean  what  is  right. 
I  ought  to  have  stood  up  for  you  and  I  have  not  done  it. 
I  was  angry  with  your  foolishness,  but  it  is  really  I  that 
was  the  fool,  and  it  vexed  me  too,  when  you  got  everyone 
down  on  you.  But  now  ...  it  is  really  too  unjust! 
That  a  lot  of  men  who  are  not  fit  to  tie  your  shoe  .  .  . 
that  they  should  strike  you!  Let  me  kiss  your  poor  muddy 
face!  " 

It  was  so  sweet  to  find  each  other  again! — ^When  she  had 
had  a  good  cry  on  Clerambault's  neck,  she  helped  him  to 
dress,  then  she  bathed  his  cheek  with  arnica,  and  carried 
off  his  clothes  to  brush  them.  At  table  her  eyes  dwelt  on 
him  with  the  old  affectionate  care,  while  he  tried  to  calm 
her  fears  by  talking  of  familiar  things.  To  be  alone  to- 
gether without  the  children  took  them  back  to  the  old  days, 
the  early  times  of  their  marriage.  And  the  memory  had 
a  sad,  quiet  sweetness — as  the  evening  angelus  spreads 
through  the  growing  gloom  a  last  softened  glory  from  the 
angelus  of  noon. 

About  ten  o'clock  the  bell  rang,  and  Moreau  came  in 
with  his  friend  Gillot.  They  had  read  the  evening  papers 
which  gave  an  account  of  the  incident — from  their  point  of 
view;  some  spoke  of  the  "  spontaneous  "  indignation  of  the 
crowd  and  approved  of  the  rebuke  inflicted  by  popular 
contempt.    Others,  and  they  were  the  more  serious  sheets^ 


CLERAMBAULT  271 

deprecated  lynch  law  in  the  public  streets,  as  a  matter  of 
principle,  but  blamed  the  weakness  of  the  authorities,  who 
were  afraid  to  throw  light  on  all  the  facts. 

It  was  not  impossible  that  this  mild  criticism  of  the 
government  was  inspired  by  the  government  itself;  for 
politicians  know  how  to  manage  so  that  their  hand  may  be 
forced,  when  they  have  an  end  in  view  of  which  they  are 
not  exactly  proud.  The  arrest  of  Clerambault  seemed  im- 
minent, and  Moreau  and  his  comrade  were  very  uneasy ;  but 
Clerambault  signed  to  them  to  say  nothing  before  his  wife, 
and  after  a  few  words  on  the  event  of  the  day,  which  they 
treated  rather  lightly,  he  took  them  both  into  his  study  and 
asked  them  to  tell  him  plainly  what  was  the  matter. 

They  showed  him  a  vicious  article  in  the  nationalist 
paper  which  had  been  active  against  Clerambault  for  weeks, 
and  which  was  so  encouraged  by  the  manifestation  of  the 
day  that  it  called  on  all  its  friends  to  renew  the  attack 
the  next  morning.  Moreau  and  Gillot  foresaw  that  there 
would  be  trouble  when  Clerambault  went  to  the  Palais,  and 
they  had  come  to  beg  him  to  stay  in  the  house.  Knowing 
his  timidity,  they  thought  that  there  would  be  no  difficulty 
in  persuading  him  to  this,  but  just  as  it  had  been  the  day 
Moreau  had  found  him  disputing  in  the  street,  he  did  not 
now  seem  to  grasp  the  situation. 

"  Stay  at  home,  why?    I  am  perfectly  well." 

**  We  think  it  would  be  more  prudent." 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  would  do  me  good  to  go  out  for  a 
little  while." 

"  You  don't  know  what  might  happen." 

"  As  to  that  one  never  knows ;  it  will  be  time  enough 
to  worry  when  it  comes." 

"  To  be  perfectly  frank  then,  you  are  in  danger;  the 
feeling  has  been  worked  up  against  you  for  a  long  time, 
till  now  you  are  so  hated  that  people's  eyes  almost  start 
out  of  their  heads  at  the  sound  of  your  name; — idiots  1 


272  CLERAMBAULT 

they  know  nothing  about  you  but  what  they  see  'in  the 
papers;  but  their  leaders  want  a  row,  they  have  been  so 
stupid  that  your  articles  have  had  much  more  publicity 
than  they  intended;  they  are  afraid  that  your  ideas  will 
spread,  and  they  want  to  make  an  example  of  you  that  will 
discourage  anyone  who  might  be  disposed  to  follow  you." 

"  If  that  is  true,"  said  Clerambault,  "  and  I  really  have 
followers, — something  I  did  not  know  before, — this  is  not 
the  moment  to  keep  out  of  the  way;  if  they  want  to  make 
an  example  of  me,  I  cannot  balk  them."  This  was  said 
in  so  pleasant  a  way,  that  they  asked  themselves  if  he 
really  understood. 

"  You  are  taking  a  terrible  risk,"  persisted  Gillot. 

"  Well,  my  friend,  everyone  has  to  take  risks  nowadays." 

"  It  ought,  at  least,  to  be  of  some  use, — why  play  into 
their  hands?  There  is  no  need  to  throw  yourself  into  the 
jaws  of  the  wolves." 

"  It  seems  to  me  on  the  contrary,  that  it  might  be  very 
useful,"  said  Clerambault,  "  and  that  the  wolf  would  find 
himself  in  the  wrong  box  after  all;  let  me  explain  to  you. 
This  will  spread  our  ideas,  for  violence  always  consecrates 
the  persecuted  cause.  They  want  to  intimidate,  and  so  they 
will.  Everyone  will  be  frightened — their  own  side,  all  the 
hesitaters,  and  timorous  folk.  Let  them  be  unjust,  it  will 
rebound  on  their  own  heads."  He  seemed  to  forget  that 
it  might  also  fall  on  his. 

They  saw  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  and  felt  an 
increased  respect  for  him,  but  they  also  felt  much  more 
anxious,  and  this  led  them  to  say: 

"  If  that  is  the  case,  we  will  get  all  our  friends  together, 
and  go  with  you." 

"  No,  no,  what  a  ridiculous   idea!    .    .    .  nothing  will  ' 
happen  after  all."     Seeing  that  their  remonstrances  were 
useless,  Moreau  made  a  last  attempt:  "  You  can't  keep  me 
from  coming  with  you,"  said  he.    "  I  am  an  obstinate  man 


CLERAMBAXJLT  273 

myself,  you  can't  get  rid  of  me;  I  will  wait  for  you,  if  I 
have  to  sit  on  that  bench  outside  your  door  all  night!  " 

"  Go  and  spend  the  night  in  your  bed,  my  dear  fellow," 
said  Clerambault,  "  and  sleep  soundly.  Come  with  me  in 
the  morning  if  you  like,  but  it  will  be  time  lost;  nothing 
is  going  to  happen; — ^but  kiss  me,  all  the  same!  "  After 
an  affectionate  hug,  they  went  towards  the  door,  when 
Gillot  paused  a  moment:  "  We  must  look  after  you  a  little, 
you  know,"  said  he,  "we  feel  as  if  you  were  a  sort  of 
father  to  us." 

"  So  I  am,"  said  Clerambault  with  his  beaming  smile; 
his  own  boy  was  in  his  mind.  He  closed  the  door,  and 
stood  for  some  minutes  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand  in  the 
vestibule  before  he  realised  where  he  was.  It  was  nearly 
midnight  and  he  was  very  tired,  but,  instead  of  going  into 
the  bedroom,  he  mechanically  turned  again  towards  his 
study; — the  apartment,  the  house,  the  street  were  all 
asleep.  Almost  without  seeing  it,  he  stared  vaguely  at  the 
light  shining  on  the  frame  of  an  engraving  of  Rembrandt's, 
The  Resurrection  of  Lazarus,  which  hung  on  the  opposite 
wall.  ...  A  dear  figure  seemed  to  enter  the  room;  .  .  . 
it  came  in  silently,  and  stood  beside  him. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  now?  "  he  thought.  "  Is  this  what 
you  wished?  "  And  Maxime  answered:  "  Yes,"  then  added 
with  meaning: 

"  I  have  found  it  very  hard  to  teach  you,  Papa." 

"  Yes,"  said  Clerambault,  "  there  is  much  that  we  can 
learn  from  our  sons."  And  they  smiled  at  each  other  in 
the  silence. 


When  Clerambault  at  last  went  to  bed,  his  wife  was 
sound  asleep.  She  was  one  of  those  people  whom  nothing 
can  keep  awake,  who  sink  into  profound  slumber  as  soon 
as  their  heads  touch  the  pillow.  But  Clerambault  could 
not  follow  her  example;  he  lay  on  his  back  with  his  eyes 
open,  staring  into  the  darkness,  all  through  the  rest  of 
the  night. 

There  were  pale  glimmers  from  the  street  in  the  half- 
shadow;  and  a  quiet  star  or  two  high  up  in  a  dark  sky; 
one  seemed  to  be  falling  in  a  great  half-circle — it  was 
only  an  airplane  keeping  watch  over  the  sleeping  city. 
Clerambault  followed  its  sweep  with  his  eyes,  and  seemed 
to  fly  with  it,  the  distant  hum  of  the  human  planet  coming 
faintly  to  his  ear,  like  a  strange  music  of  the  spheres  not 
foreseen  by  Ionian  sages. 

He  felt  happy,  for  the  burden  was  lifted  from  his  body 
and  soul,  his  whole  being  seemed  to  be  relaxed,  to  float 
in  air.  Pictures  of  the  past  day  with  its  agitations  and 
fatigues,  passed  before  his  eyes,  but  did  not  disturb  him. 
An  old  man  hustled  by  a  mob  of  young  bourgeois  .  .  . 
He  could  hear  their  loud  voices,  too  loud — ^but  now  they 
had  vanished  like  faces  that  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  from 
a  moving  train.  The  train  flies  on  and  the  vision  disap- 
pears in  the  roaring  tunnel.  .  .  .  There  is  the  sombre  sky 
again,  and  the  mysterious  star,  still  falling.  Silent  spaces 
around,  the  clear  darkness,  and  the  cool  fresh  air  blowing 
on  his  soul;  all  infinity  in  one  tiny  drop  of  life,  in  a  heart 
whose  spark  flickers  to  its  end,  but  knows  it  is  free,  and 
that  its  vast  home  is  near. 

Like  a  good  steward  of  the  treasure  placed  in  his  charge, 
Clerambault  made  up  the  account  of  his  day.    He  looked 

274 


CXERAMBAULT  275 

I, 
back  on  his  attempts,  his  efforts,  his  impulses,  his  mistakes ; 

how  little  remained  of  his  life,  for  nearly  all  that  he  had 

built  up  he  had  afterwards  destroyed  with  his  own  hands. 

He  had  first  stated,  then  denied,  and  had  never  ceased  to 

wander  in  the  forest  of  doubts  and  contradictions;  often 

torn  and  bruised,  with  no  guide  but  the  stars  half-seen 

through  the  branches.     What  meaning  had  there  been  in 

this  long  troubled  course,  now  ending  in  darkness?     One 

only,  he  had  been  free. 

Free!  .  .  .  What  was  this  freedom,  then,  which  intoxi- 
cated him  so  completely?  This  liberty  of  which  he  was 
the  master  and  the  slave — this  imperious  need  to  be  free? 
He  knew  well  enough  that  no  more  than  others  was  he 
emancipated  from  the  eternal  bonds;  but  the  orders  that 
he  obeyed  differed  from  others;  all  are  not  alike.  The 
word  liberty  is  only  one  of  the  clear  high  commands  of 
the  invisible  sovereign  who  rules  the  world  .  .  .  whom 
we  call  necessity.  She  it  is  who  excites  those  of  the 
advance-guard  to  rebel,  and  causes  them  to  break  with  the 
heavy  past  which  the  blind  multitude  drags  along  behind 
it;  for  she  is  the  battle-field  of  the  eternal  present,  where 
the  past  and  the  future  must  ever  strive  together,  and  on 
this  field  the  ancient  laws  are  conquered,  that  they  may 
give  place  to  new  laws,  which  will  be  conquered  in  their 
turn. 

O  Liberty!  Thou  art  always  in  chains,  but  they  are  not 
the  heavy  fetters  of  the  past;  for  each  struggle  has  enlarged 
thy  prison.  Who  can  tell?  Perhaps  later,  when  the  prison 
walls  have  been  thrown  down.  .  .  .  But  in  the  meanwhile, 
those  whom  thou  wouldst  save  resist  thee.  Thou  art  called 
the  Public  Enemy,  or  The  One  against  All.  To  think  that 
this  nickname  should  have  been  fastened  on  the  weak, 
ordinary  Clerambault!  But  he  did  not  remember  that  at 
this  moment,  his  thoughts  were  filled  with  the  one  who 
has  always  existed,  ever  since  man  has  been  known  on  the 


276  CLERAMBAULT 

earth;  the  one  who  has  never  ceased  to  fight  their  follies, 
that  they  may  be  delivered — The  One  whom  All  oppose. 
.  .  .  How  many  times  throughout  the  ages  have  they 
rejected  and  crushed  him!  But  in  the  midst  of  his  agony 
a  supernatural  joy  sustains  him;  he  is  the  sacred  golden 
seed  of  liberty,  which  fell  from  we  know  not  what  sheaf, 
and  in  the  darkness  of  destiny  has  sowed  the  germs  of 
light,  ever  since  the  first  chaos.  In  the  depths  of  the  savage 
heart  of  man,  the  frail  atom  found  shelter,  it  fought  against 
elementary  laws  which  grind  and  bend  living  things;  but 
tirelessly  the  small  golden  seed  grew,  and  man  the  weakest 
of  all  creatures,  marched  against  nature  and  fought  her. 
Each  step  cost  a  drop  of  his  blood,  in  this  gigantic  duel; 
he  has  had  to  fight  nature  not  only  in  the  world  without, 
but  within  himself,  since  he  is  a  part  of  her.  This  is 
the  hardest  battle,  that  waged  by  the  man  divided  against 
himself;  and  in  the  end  who  will  conquer?  On  the  one 
side  is  nature  with  her  chariot  of  iron,  in  which  she  hurls 
worlds  and  peoples  into  the  abyss;  and  on  the  other  is 
only, — The  Word.  It  is  no  wonder  that  you  laugh,  ye 
slaves!  no  wonder  the  servants  of  force  say  that  it  is 
like  "  a  cur  barking  at  the  wheels  .of  an  express-train." 
Yes,  if  man  were  only  a  fragment  of  matter  writhing  in 
vain  beneath  the  hammer  of  fate;  but  there  is  a  spirit 
within  him  which  knows  how  to  smite  Achilles  on  his  heel, 
and  Goliath  in  his  forehead.  Let  him  but  wrench  off  a 
nut,  the  swift  train  is  overturned,  its  course  stayed. 
Planetary  swirls,  obscure  masses  of  human-kind,  roll  down 
through  the  ages  lighted  by  flashes  of  the  liberating  Spirit: 
Buddha,  the  Sages,  Jesus — all  breakers  of  chains!  I  can 
see  the  lightning  coming,  feel  it  thrill  through  me,  like 
sparks  that  fly  up  beneath  the  horse's  hoofs.  The  air 
vibrates  with  it,  as  the  thick  clouds  of  hate  come  together 
with  a  crash.  The  flame  springs  up!  If  you  are  alone 
against  the  world,  have  you  cause  to  complain?    You  have 


CLERAMBAULT  277 

escaped  the  crushing  yoke,  fought  your  way  through,  like 
a  nightmare  in  which  one  struggles  and  tears  oneself  out 
of  the  dark  waters.  You  sink,  choking,  and  all  at  once 
with  a  despairing  effort  you  throw  yourself  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  wave,  and  sink  exhausted  but  safe  on  the 
shore.  These  people  wound  me?  So  much  the  better,  I 
shall  wake  up  in  the  free  air. 

Yes,  threatening  world,  I  am  indeed  free  from  your  fet- 
ters, I  can  never  be  chained  again,  and  my  detested  will 
with  which  I  so  often  had  to  fight,  my  will  is  now  in  you. 
You  wanted,  like  me,  to  be  free,  and  that  made  you  suffer, 
and  made  you  my  enemy ;  but  now  even  if  you  kill  me,  you 
have  seen  the  light  in  me,  and  once  seen,  you  can  no  longer 
reject  it.  Strike  then!  But  know  that  in  fighting  against 
me  you  fight  yourself  also;  you  are  beaten  in  advance,  and 
when  I  defend  myself,  it  is  you  that  I  defend  as  well.  The 
One  against  All  is  the  One  for  All,  and  soon  will  be  The 
One  with  All. 

I  shall  no  longer  be  solitary!  I  feel  that  I  have  never 
been  in  truth  alone.  My  brothers  of  the  world,  you  may 
indeed  be  scattered  afar  over  the  earth  like  a  handful  of 
grain,  but  I  know  that  you  are  here  beside  me.  The  thought 
of  a  man  is  not  solitary;  the  idea  which  grows  in  him 
springs  up  in  others;  when  he  feels  it  in  his  heart,  let  him 
rejoice,  no  matter  how  unhappy,  how  injured  he  may  be, 
for  it  is  the  earth  reviving.  The  first  spark  in  a  lonely 
soul  is  the  point  of  the  ray  which  will  pierce  the  night. 
So,  welcome.  Light.  Break  through  the  night  which  is 
around  and  within  me!   .    .   .  "  Clerambault." 


The  fresh  light  of  day  returned,  ever  young  and  new, 
untouched  by  the  stains  of  men  which  the  sun  drinks  up 
like  a  morning  mist. 

Madame  Clerambault  woke,  and  when  she  saw  her  hus- 
band with  open  eyes,  she  thou^t  that  he  too  had  just 
waked  up. 

"  You  had  a  good  sleep,"  said  she.  "  I  don't  think  you 
stirred  all  night  long."  He  did  not  contradict  her,  but 
thought  of  the  vast  distances  he  had  traversed  in  the  spirit, 
that  fiery  bird  that  flies  through  the  night.  .  .  .  But  feel- 
ing that  he  had  come  back  to  earth,  he  got  up. 

At  the  same  hour  another  man  rose,  who  had  also  passed 
a  sleepless  night,  who  had  also  evoked  his  dead  son,  and 
thought  of  Clerambault  whom  he  did  not  know,  with  fierce 
hatred. 

A  letter  came  from  Rosine  by  the  first  mail,  containing 
a  secret  that  Clerambault  had  guessed  long  ago.  Daniel 
had  spoken  to  his  parents,  and  the  marriage  would  take 
place  the  next  time  he  came  home  from  the  front.  She 
went  through  the  form  of  asking  the  consent  of  her  father 
and  mother,  but  she  knew  that  her  wishes  were  theirs.  Her 
letter  radiated  happiness  and  a  triumphant  security  that 
nothing  could  shake.  The  sad  riddle  of  the  agonised  world 
had  found  an  answer,  and  in  the  absorption  of  her  young 
love  the  universal  suffering  did  not  seem  too  high  a 
price  for  the  flower  that  bloomed  for  her  on  this  bloody 
stem.  In  the  midst  of  it  all,  she  was  tender  and  compas- 
sionate as  usual,  remembering  the  troubles  of  others,  her 
father  and  his  worries.  But  she  seemed  to  put  her  happy 
arms  about  them,  with  a  simple  affectionate  conceit,  as  if 
she  said: 

278 


CLERAMBAULT  279 

"  Please  don't  worry  any  more  over  all  these  ideas, 
darlings!  It  is  foolish  of  you  to  be  sad,  when  you  see 
that  happiness  is  coming." 

Clerambault  smiled  tenderly  as  he  read  the  letter.  No 
doubt  happiness  was  on  the  way,  but  some  of  us  cannot 
wait  for  it.  "  Greet  it  from  me,  my  little  Rose,  and  do 
not  let  it  fly  away." 

About  eleven  o'clock  the  Count  de  Coulanges  came  to  ask 
after  him;  he  had  seen  Moreau  and  Gillot  mounting  guard 
before  the  door.  They  had  come  to  escort  Clerambault 
according  to  their  promise,  but  they  had  not  dared  to  come 
up  because  they  were  an  hour  too  early.  Clerambault 
sent  for  them,  laughing  at  their  excess  of  zeal,  and  they 
admitted  that  they  had  thought  him  perfectly  capable  of 
sneaking  out  of  the  house  without  waiting  for  them;  an 
idea  which  he  confessed  had  crossed  his  mind. 

The  news  from  the  front  was  good;  during  the  last  few 
days  the  German  offensive  had  wavered;  strange  signs 
of  weakness  began  to  appear;  and  well-founded  rumours 
made  it  evident  that  there  was  a  secret  disorganisation  in 
the  formidable  mass.  People  said  that  the  limit  of  his 
strength  had  been  passed  and  that  the  athlete  was  ex- 
hausted. There  was  talk  also  of  contagion  from  the  Rus- 
sian revolutionary  spirit  brought  by  the  German  troops  that 
had  been  on  the  Eastern  Front. 

With  the  usual  mobility  of  the  French  mind,  the  pessi- 
mists of  yesterday  began  to  shout  for  the  approaching  vic- 
tory. Already  Moreau  discounted  the  calming  down  of 
passions  and  the  return  to  common  sense.  The  reconcilia- 
tion of  the  nations  and  the  triumph  of  Clerambault's  ideas 
would  follow  shortly.  He  advised  them  not  to  deceive  them- 
selves too  much,  and  amused  himself  by  describing  what 
would  happen  when  peace  was  signed;  for  peace  would 
have  to  come  some  day. 


28o  CLERAMBAULT 

"  I  am  going  to  pretend,"  said  he,  "  that  I  am  hovering 
over  the  town — ^like  the  devil  on  two  sticks — the  first 
night  after  the  armistice.  I  see  innumerable  sorrowing 
hearts  behind  shutters  closed  against  the  shouts  in  the 
streets.  Hearts  straining  all  through  these  years  towards 
a  victory  that  would  lend  meaning  to  their  grief;  and  now 
they  can  let  go — or  break  down,  sleep,  die,  perhaps.  The 
politicians  will  reflect  on  the  quickest  and  most  lucrative 
way  to  exploit  the  success,  or  turn  a  somersault  if  they 
have  guessed  wrong.  The  professional  soldiers  will  keep 
the  war  going  as  long  as  they  can,  and  when  that  is  stopped, 
they  will  plan  for  another  in  the  shortest  possible  time. 
Before-the-war  pacifists  will  all  come  out  of  their  holes, 
and  be  found  at  their  posts,  with  touching  demonstrations 
of  joy,  while  their  old  leaders  who  have  been  beating  the 
drum  in  the  rear  for  over  five  years  will  reappear  with 
olive  branches  in  their  hands,  smiling  and  talking  of 
brotherly  love.  The  men  who  swore  never  to  forget  when 
they  were  in  the  trenches  will  accept  all  the  explanations 
and  congratulations  that  are  offered  them.  It  is  such  a 
bore  not  to  forget!  Five  years  of  exhausting  fatigue  make 
you  accept  anything  through  sheer  weariness  or  boredom, 
or  the  wish  to  finish  it  all,  so  the  flourishes  of  triumph 
will  drown  the  cries  of  the  vanquished.  The  one  thought 
of  most  people  will  be  to  go  back  to  their  sleepy  before- 
the-war  habits;  first  they  will  dance  on  the  graves,  and 
then  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep  on  them,  till  after  a  while 
the  war  will  be  only  something  to  boast  about  in  the  eve- 
ning. Perhaps  they  will  succeed  in  forgetting  it  so  entirely, 
that  the  Dance  of  Death  can  be  resumed; — not  all  at  once, 
of  course,  but  later  when  we  have  had  a  good  rest.  So 
there  will  be  peace  ever5r\yhere,  till  the  time  when  it  will 
be  war  everywhere  again.  In  the  meaning  that  is  now 
given  to  the  words,  my  friends,  peace  and  war  are  just  dif- 
ferent labels  for  the  same  bottle.    It  reminds  me  of  what 


CLERAMBAULT  ttSi 

Kiig  Bomba  said  of  his  valiant  soldiers;  dress  them  in 
red  or  in  green  as  you  choose,  they  will  take  to  their  heels 
just  the  same.  One  says  peace  and  the  other  war,  but 
neither  means  anything,  there  is  only  universal  servitude, 
multitudes  swept  along  like  the  ebb  and  flow  of  tides;  and 
this  will  continue  as  long  as  no  strong  souls  raise  them- 
selves above  the  human  ocean,  as  long  as  no  one  dares  to 
fight  against  the  fate  that  sways  these  great  masses." 

"  Fight  against  nature,"  said  Coulanges.  "  Would  you 
resist  her  laws?  " 

"  There  are  no  immutable  laws,"  said  Clerambault, 
laws  like  beings,  live,  change,  and  die.  It  is  the  duty  of 
the  spirit,  not  to  accept  these  as  the  Stoics  taught  us,  but 
rather  to  modify  and  shape  them  to  our  needs.  Laws  are 
the  outside  form  of  the  soul,  and  if  it  grows  they  must 
grow  also.  The  only  just  laws  are  those  that  suit  me.  Am 
I  wrong  in  thinking  that  the  shoe  should  be  made  to  fit 
the  foot,  not  the  foot  for  the  shoe?  " 

"I  do  not  say  that  you  are  wrong,"  said  the  Count, 
"  we  force  nature  all  the  time  in  cattle-breeding,  so  that 
even  the  shape  and  instincts  of  the  animals  are  modified; 
why  not  the  human  creature?  No,  far  from  blaming  you, 
I  maintain  on  the  contrary  that  the  object  and  the  duty  of 
every  man  worthy  of  the  name  is,  just  as  you  say,  to  alter 
human  nature.  It  is  the  source  of  all  real  progress;  even 
to  strive  after  the  impossible  has  a  concrete  value.  But 
that  does  not  mean  that  we  shall  succeed  in  what  we 
undertake." 

"  It  is  possible  that  we  may  not  succeed  for  ourselves 
and  our  children;  it  is,  even  more,  probable.  Perhaps  our 
unhappy  nation,  the  entire  West  is  on  the  downward  path. 
There  are  many  things  that  make  me  fear  that  we  are 
hastening  to  our  fall;  our  vices  and  our  virtues,  which  are 
almost  equally  injurious,  the  pride  and  hatred,  the  jealous 
spite  worthy  of  a  big  village,  the  endless  chain  of  revenges, 


282  CLERAMBAULT 

the  blind  obstinacy,  the  clinging  to  the  past  with  its  super- 
annuated conceptions  of  honour  and  duty,  which  causes  us 
to  sacrifice  the  future  for  the  past;  all  these  make  me  fear 
that  the  terrible  warning  of  this  war  has  taught  nothing 
to  our  slothful  and  turbulent  heroism.  There  was  a  time 
when  I  should  have  been  overwhelmed  by  such  a  thought 
as  this,  but  now  I  feel  lifted  above  it,  as  I  am  above  my 
own  mortal  body;  the  only  tie  between  me  and  it  is  made 
of  pity.  My  spirit  is  brother  to  that  which,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  globe,  is  now  touched  by  the  new  fire.  Do  you 
remember  the  beautiful  words  of  the  Seer  of  St.  Jean 
d'Acre?  * 

'The  Sun  of  Truth  is  like  our  sun.  It  rises  in  many 
different  places.  One  day  it  appears  in  the  sign  of  Cancer, 
on  another  it  rises  in  Libra,  but  it  is  always  the  same  sun. 
Once  the  Sun  of  Truth  rose  in  the  constellation  of  Abra- 
ham, and  set  in  that  of  Moses,  flaming  over  the  whole 
horizon;  and  later  it  was  seen  in  the  sign  of  Christ,  bright 
and  resplendent.  When  its  light  shone  over  Sinai,  the  fol- 
lowers of  Abraham  were  blinded.  But  wherever  the  sun 
may  rise,  my  eyes  will  be  fixed  upon  it;  even  if  it  should 
appear  in  the  west  it  will  always  be  the  sun* " 

"*C*est  du  Nord  aujourd'hui  que  nous  vient  la  lu- 
miere,' "  f  said  Moreau,  laughing  ("  It  is  from  the  North 
that  .our  light  comes  today"). 

*  Reference  to  Abdul  Baha,  at  present  the  head  of  the  Babists 
or  Bahaists.  He  was  at  that  time  a  prisoner  at  St.  J«.an  d'Acre. 
See  "  Lessons  of  St.  Jean  d'Acre,"  by  Abdul  Baha,  collected  by 
Laura  CliflFord  Barney.     (Author.) 

t  A  famous  line  of  Voltaire's.    (Author.) 


Though  the  hearing  was  set  for  one  o'clock,  and  it  was 
now  barely  twelve,  Clerambault  wanted  to  start  at  once, 
he  was  so  afraid  of  being  late. 

They  had  not  far  to  go,  and  indeed  his  friends  had  no 
need  to  protect  him  against  the  rabble  which  hung  about 
the  Palais  de  Justice,  a  crowd  which  in  any  case  was  con- 
siderably thinned  out  by  the  morning's  news.  There  were 
only  a  few  curs,  more  noisy  than  dangerous,  who  might 
have  snapped  at  their  heels. 

They  had  reached  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Vaugirard  and 
the  Rue  d'Assas,  when  Clerambault,  finding  that  he  had 
forgotten  an  important  paper,  went  back  to  look  for  it  in 
his  apartment;  the  others  stood  there  waiting  for  him. 
They  saw  him  come  out  and  cross  the  street.  On  the 
opposite  sidewalk,  near  a  cab-stand,  was  a  well-dressed 
man  of  about  his  own  age,  grey-haired,  not  very  tall,  and 
rather  stout.  They  saw  this  person  go  up  to  Clerambault 
— it  all  passed  so  quickly  that  they  had  no  time  even  to 
cry  out.  There  was  a  brief  exchange  of  words,  an  arm 
raised,  a  shot! — they  saw  him  totter,  and  ran  up.  Too 
late. 

They  laid  him  down  on  a  bench;  a  little  crowd  gathered, 
more  curious  than  shocked  (people  had  seen  so  many  things 
of  this  kind),  looking  over  each  other's  shoulders: 

"Who  is  it?" 

"  A  defeatist." 

"Serve  him  right,  thenl  The  dirty  beasts  have  done 
us  harm  enough!  " 

"  I  don't  know,  there  are  worse  things  than  to  want  the 
war  to  be  over." 

"There  is  only  one  way  to  finish  it;  we  must  fight  it 

283 


284  CLERAMBAULT 

out.  It  is  the  pacifists'  fault  that  it  has  dragged  on  so 
long." 

"  You  might  almost  say  that  they  were  the  cause  of  it; 
the  boches  counted  on  them.  Without  those  fools  there 
wouldn't  have  been  any  war."  Clerambault  lying  there  half- 
unconscious,  thought  of  the  old  woman  who  threw  her 
fagot  on  the  wood  stacked  around  John  Huss  .  .  .  Sancta 
simplicitas. 

Vaucoux  had  not  attempted  to  get  away,  but  let  them 
take  the  revolver  out  of  his  hand  without  resistance.  They 
held  his  arms  fast,  and  he  stood  looking  at  his  victim, 
whose  eyes  met  his;  each  thought  of  his  son. 

Moreau,  much  excited,  spoke  threateningly  to  Vaucoux; 
who,  like  an  impassive  image  of  hatred,  only  answered 
briefly:  "  I  have  killed  the  Adversary,  the  Enemy." 

A  faint  smile  hovered  on  Clerambault's  lips  as  he 
looked  at  Vaucoux.  "  My  poor  friend,"  he  thought,  "  It 
is  within  you  yourself  that  the  Enemy  lies," — ^his  eyes 
closed  .  .  .  centuries  seemed  to  pass.  ..."  There  are 
no  enemies  ..."  and  Clerambault  entered  into  the  peace 
of  the  worlds  to  come. 


Seeing  that  he  had  lost  consciousness,  his  friends  car- 
ried him  into  Froment's  house  which  was  close  by;  but  he 
was  dead  before  they  reached  it. 

They  laid  him  on  a  bed,  in  a  room  beside  that  in  which 
the  young  paralytic  lay  with  his  friends  now  gathered  round 
him.  The  door  remained  open.  The  spirit  of  the  dead 
man  seemed  near  them. 

Moreau  spoke  bitterly  of  the  absurdity  of  this  murder; 
why  not  strike  one  of  the  great  pirates  of  the  triumphant 
reaction,  or  a  recognised  head  of  the  revolutionary  group? 
Why  choose  this  inoffensive,  unbiassed  man,  who  was  kind 
to  everyone,  and  almost  too  comprehending  to  all  sides? 

"  Hatred  makes  no  mistakes,"  said  Edme  Froment. 
"  It  has  been  guided  by  a  sure  instinct  to  the  right  mark; 
for  an  enemy  often  sees  more  clearly  than  a  friend.  No, 
there  is  no  doubt  about  it,  the  most  dangerous  adversary 
of  society  and  the  established  order  in  this  world  of  vio- 
lence, falsehood,  and  base  compromises,  is,  and  has  always 
been,  the  man  of  peace  and  a  free  conscience.  The  cruci- 
fixion of  Jesus  was  no  accident;  He  had  to  be  put  to 
death.  He  would  be  executed  today;  for  a  great  evangelist 
is  a  revolutionary,  and  the  most  radical  of  all.  He  is  the 
inaccessible  source  from  whence  revolutions  break  through 
the  hard  ground,  the  eternal  principle  of  non-submission 
of  the  spirit  to  Caesar,  no  matter  who  he  may  be — the 
unjust  force.  This  explains  the  hatred  of  those  servants 
of  the  State,  the  domesticated  peoples,  for  the  insulted 
Christ  who  looks  at  them  in  silence,  and  also  for  His  dis- 
ciples, for  us,  the  eternal  insurrectionists,  the  conscien- 
tious objectors  to  tyranny  from  high  or  low,  to  that  of 
today  or  tomorrow.   ...    for  us,  who  go  before  One 

285 


286  CLERAMBAULT 

greater  than  ourselves,  who  comes  bringing  to  the  world  the 
Word  of  salvation,  the  Master  laid  in  the  grave  but  '  qui 
sera  en  agonie  jusqu'  a  la  fin  du  monde/  *  whose  suffering 
will  endure  to  the  world's  end,  the  unfettered  Spirit,  the 
Lord  of  all." 

SiERRE,  1916 — Paris,  1920. 

♦  The  quotation  is  from  Pascal.    (Author.) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

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